LIBRARY 

Y  OF 


SANT/ 


[Reproduced/or  this  memorial  edition  from  the  oil  Portrait  in  Hon.  William  A .  Courtenay^s 
Library,  Inn  is/alien,  South  Carolina] 


flDemortai  BMtfon 


POEMS  OF 

HENRY  TIMROD 
/ft 

WITH 
MEMOIR  AND  PORTRAIT 


RICHMOND.  VA. 
B.  F.  JOHNSON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1899,   BY   MRS.    KATE  LLOYD 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


30 10 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION vii 

THE  LATE  JUDGE   GEORGE  S.   BRYAN          ,          .          .          .       XXxix 

SPRING 3 

THE   COTTON   BOLL 6 

PRECEPTOR   AMAT 12 

THE    PROBLEM l6 

A  YEAR'S  COURTSHIP 20 

SERENADE ,  23 

YOUTH   AND   MANHOOD 24 

HARK   TO   THE   SHOUTING  WIND 26 

TOO   LONG,  O   SPIRIT  OF   STORM 27 

THE   LILY   CONFIDANTE 28 

THE   STREAM   IS  FLOWING   FROM   THE  WEST          ...  30 

VOX   ET   PR^TEREA   NIHIL ,           .  3! 

MADELINE 32 

A   DEDICATION 36 

KATIE 38 

WHY   SILENT? 45 

TWO   PORTRAITS 46 

LA   BELLE  JUIVE 57 

AN   EXOTIC 59 

THE    ROSEBUDS        .........  6l 

A  MOTHER'S  WAIL 62 

OUR  WILLIE 64 

ADDRESS    DELIVERED    AT   THE   OPENING   OF   THE   NEW 

THEATRE  AT  RICHMOND 69 

A  VISION  OF  POESY .  74 

THE   PAST 100 

DREAMS 101 

THE  ARCTIC   VOYAGER 103 

DRAMATIC    FRAGMENT            .          „          .          .          .          .          .  105 

THE  SUMMER    BOWER                                                                           »          .  Io6 


iv  CONTENTS 

A   RHAPSODY   OF  A  SOUTHERN   WINTER   NIGHT         .          .  109 

FLOWER-LIFE 113 

A   SUMMER   SHOWER 115 

BABY'S  AGE 117 

THE   MESSENGER   ROSE Il8 

ON   PRESSING  SOME   FLOWERS 1 19 

1866  — ADDRESSED   TO   THE  OLD  YEAR       .          .  .  .  I2O 

STANZAS  :  A  MOTHER  GAZES  UPON  HER  DAUGHTER  .        .  122 
HYMN  SUNG  AT  AN  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  ASYLUM  OF 

ORPHANS  AT  CHARLESTON 124 

TO  A  CAPTIVE  OWL 125 

LOVE'S  LOGIC 127 

SECOND  LOVE .  128 

HYMN   SUNG  AT  THE  CONSECRATION   OF   MAGNOLIA  CEM- 
ETERY    129 

HYMN  SUNG  AT  A  SACRED  CONCERT 130 

LINES  TO  R.  L 131 

TO  WHOM  ? 132 

TO  THEE 133 

STORM  AND  CALM 134 

RETIREMENT 136 

A  COMMON  THOUGHT 137 

POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  WAR  TIMES 

CAROLINA 141 

A  CRY  TO  ARMS 144 

CHARLESTON 146 

RIPLEY 148 

ETHNOGENESIS 150 

CARMEN   TRIUMPHALE  .......  154 

THE   UNKNOWN   DEAD 157 

THE  TWO   ARMIES 158 

CHRISTMAS l6o 

ODE  SUNG  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  DECORATING  THE  GRAVES 

OF  THE  CONFEDERATE  DEAD  AT  MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY  164 

SONNETS 

"POET!  IF  ON   A  LASTING   FAME   BE  BENT"          .          .          .169 

UMOST  MEN   KNOW  LOVE   BUT  AS  A   PART  OF  LIFE"       .  170 


CONTENTS  v 

"LIFE  EVER  SEEMS  AS  FROM  ITS  PRESENT  SITE  "    .       .171 

"THEY  DUB  THEE  IDLER,  SMILING  SNEERINGLY".        .  172 

"SOME  TRUTHS  THERE  BE  ARE  BETTER  LEFT  UNSAID"  .  173 

"I  SCARCELY  GRIEVE,  O  NATURE!  AT  THE  LOT"   .          .  174 

"GRIEF  DIES  LIKE  JOY;  THE  TEARS  UPON  MY  CHEEK"  .  175 

"  AT   LAST,   BELOVED   NATURE  !   I  HAVE   MET  ".           .           .  176 

"I  KNOW  NOT  WHY,   BUT  ALL  THIS  WEARY  DAY"         .          .  177 

"WERE  i  THE  POET-LAUREATE  OF  THE  FAIRIES"         .  178 

"WHICH     ARE     THE     CLOUDS,     AND     WHICH     THE     MOUN- 
TAIN'S?   SEE"        * 179 

"  WHAT  GOSSAMER  LURES  THEE  NOW  ?     WHAT  HOPE,  WHAT 

NAME" 180 

"  I  THANK  YOU,  KIND  AND  BEST  BELOVED  FRIEND "        .  l8l 

"ARE    THESE    WILD    THOUGHTS,  THUS    FETTERED    IN  MY 

RHYMES" 182 

IN   MEMORIAM  — HARRIS  SIMONS         .          .          .          .          .  183 

POEMS  NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED 

SONG  COMPOSED   FOR  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY          .          .  187 

A  BOUQUET 188 

LINES:  " i  STOOPED  FROM  STAR-BRIGHT  REGIONS"  .       .  189 

A   TRIFLE 190 

LINES:  "i  SAW,  OR  DREAMED  i  SAW,  HER  SITTING  LONE"  191 

SONNET:  "IF  i  HAVE  GRACED  NO  SINGLE  SONG  OF  MINE"  192 

TO   ROSA :  ACROSTIC 192 

DEDICATION 193 

NOTE.  The  frontispiece  portrait  of  Henry  Timrod  was  engraved 
from  the  portrait  in  the  possession  of  Hon.  William  A.  Courtenay, 
for  the  Century  Company,  who  have  kindly  presented  it  for  use  in 
this  volume. 


INTRODUCTION 

"  A  TRUE  poet  is  one  of  the  most  precious  gifts 
that  can  be  bestowed  on  a  generation."  He 
speaks  for  it  and  he  speaks  to  it.  Reflecting  and 
interpreting  his  age  and  its  thoughts,  feelings,  and 
purposes,  he  speaks  for  it;  and  with  a  love  of 
truth,  with  a  keener  moral  insight  into  the  univer- 
sal heart  of  man,  and  with  the  intuition  of  inspira- 
tion, he  speaks  to  it,  and  through  it  to  the  world. 
It  is  thus 

"  The  poet  to  the  whole  wide  world  belongs, 
Even  as  the  Teacher  is  the  child's." 

"  Nor  is  it  to  the  great  masters  alone  that  our  hom- 
age and  thankfulness  are  due.  Wherever  a  true 
child  of  song  strikes  his  harp,  we  love  to  listen. 
All  that  we  ask  is  that  the  music  be  native,  born  of 
impassioned  impulse  that  will  not  be  denied,  heart- 
felt, like  the  lark  when  she  soars  up  to  greet  the 
morning  and  pours  out  her  song  by  the  same  quiv- 
ering ecstasy  that  impels  her  flight."  For  though 
the  voices  be  many,  the  oracle  is  one,  for  "God 
gave  the  poet  his  song." 

Such  was  Henry  Timrod,  the  Southern  poet.  A 
child  of  nature,  his  song  is  the  voice  of  the  South- 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

land.  Born  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  December  8th, 
1829,  his  life  cast  in  the  seething  torrent  of  civil 
war,  his  voice  was  also  the  voice  of  Carolina,  and 
through  her  of  the  South,  in  all  the  rich  glad  life 
poured  out  in  patriotic  pride  into  that  fatal  struggle, 
in  all  the  valor  and  endurance  of  that  dark  conflict, 
in  all  the  gloom  of  its  disaster,  and  in  all  the  sacred 
tenderness  that  clings  about  its  memories.  He  was 
the  poet  of  the  Lost  Cause,  the  finest  interpreter  of 
the  feelings  and  traditions  of  the  splendid  heroism 
of  a  brave  people.  Moreover,  by  his  catholic 
spirit,  his  wide  range,  and  world-wide  sympathies, 
he  is  a  true  American  poet. 

The  purpose  of  the  TIMROD  MEMORIAL  ASSOCIA- 
TION of  his  native  city  and  State,  in  undertaking 
this  new  edition  of  his  poems,  is  to  erect  a  suitable 
public  memorial  to  the  poet,  and  also  to  let  his  own 
words  renew  and  keep  his  own  memory  in  his 
land's  literature. 

The  earliest  edition  of  Timrod's  poems  was  a 
small  volume  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  of  Boston,  in 
1860,  just  before  the  Civil  War.  This  contained 
only  the  poems  of  the  first  eight  or  nine  years  pre- 
vious, and  was  warmly  welcomed  North  and  South. 
The  "  New  York  Tribune  "  then  greeted  this  small 
first  volume  in  these  words:  "These  poems  are 
worthy  of  a  wide  audience,  and  they  form  a  wel- 
come offering  to  the  common  literature  of  our 
country." 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

In  this  first  volume  was  evinced  the  culture,  the 
lively  fancy,  the  delicate  and  vigorous  imagination, 
and  the  finished  artistic  power  of  his  mind,  even 
then  rejoicing  in  the  fullness  and  freshness  of  its 
creations  and  in  the  unwearied  flow  of  its  natural 
music.  But  it  fell  then  on  the  great  world  of  let- 
ters almost  unheeded,  shut  out  by  the  war  cloud 
that  soon  broke  upon  the  land,  enveloping  all  in 
darkness. 

The  edition  of  his  complete  poems  was  not 
issued  until  the  South  was  recovering  from  the 
ravage  of  war,  and  was  entitled  "  The  Poems  of 
Henry  Timrod,  edited  with  a  sketch  of  the  Poet's 
life  by  Paul  H.  Hayne.  E.  J.  Hale  &  Son,  pub- 
lishers, New  York,  1873."  And  immediately,  in 
1874,  there  followed  a  second  edition  of  this  vol- 
ume, which  contained  the  noble  series  of  war 
poems  and  other  lyrics  written  since  the  edition  of 
1860.  In  1884  an  illustrated  edition  of  "Katie" 
was  published  by  Hale  &  Son,  New  York.  All  of 
these  editions  were  long  ago  exhausted  by  an 
admiring  public. 

The  present  edition  contains  the  poems  of  all 
the  former  editions,  and  also  some  earlier  poems 
not  heretofore  published. 

The  name  of  Timrod  has  been  closely  identified 
with  the  history  of  South  Carolina  for  over  a  cen- 
tury. Before  the  Revolution,  Henry  Timrod,  of 
German  birth,  the  founder  of  the  family  in  Amer- 


x  INTRODUCTION 

ica,  was  a  prominent  citizen  of  Charleston,  and  the 
president  of  that  historic  association,  the  German 
Friendly  Society,  still  existing,  a  century  and  a 
quarter  old.  We  find  his  name  first  on  the  roll  of 
the  German  Fusiliers  of  Charleston,  volunteers 
formed  in  May,  1775,  for  the  defense  of  the  coun- 
try, immediately  on  hearing  of  the  battle  of  Lex- 
ington. Again  in  the  succeeding  generation,  in 
the  Seminole  war  and  in  the  peril  of  St.  Augus- 
tine, the  German  Fusiliers  were  commanded  by  his 
son,  Captain  William  Henry  Timrod,  who  was  the 
father  of  the  poet,  and  who  himself  published  a 
volume  of  poems  in  the  early  part  of  the  century. 
He  was  the  editor  of  a  literary  periodical  published 
in  Charleston,  to  which  he  himself  largely  contrib- 
uted. He  was  of  strong  intellect  and  delicate  feel- 
ings, and  an  ardent  patriot. 

Some  of  the  more  striking  of  the  poems  of  the 
elder  Timrod  are  the  following.  Washington  Ir- 
ving said  of  these  lines  that  Tom  Moore  had  written 
no  finer  lyric :  — 

TO  TIME,  THE   OLD  TRAVELER 

THEY  slander  thee,  Old  Traveler, 

Who  say  that  thy  delight 
Is  to  scatter  ruin,  far  and  wide, 

In  thy  wantonness  of  might : 
For  not  a  leaf  that  falleth 

Before  thy  restless  wings, 
But  in  thy  flight,  thou  changest  it 

To  a  thousand  brighter  things. 


INTRODUCTION 

Thou  passest  o'er  the  battlefield 

Where  the  dead  lie  stiff  and  stark, 
Where  naught  is  heard  save  the  vulture's  scream, 

And  the  gaunt  wolf's  famished  bark ; 
But  thou  hast  caused  the  grain  to  spring 

From  the  blood-enriched  clay, 
And  the  waving  corn-tops  seem  to  dance 

To  the  rustic's  merry  lay. 

Thou  hast  strewed  the  lordly  palace 

In  ruins  on  the  ground, 
And  the  dismal  screech  of  the  owl  is  heard 

Where  the  harp  was  wont  to  sound ; 
But  the  selfsame  spot  thou  coverest 

With  the  dwellings  of  the  poor, 
And  a  thousand  happy  hearts  enjoy 

What  one  usurped  before. 

'T  is  true  thy  progress  layeth 

Full  many  a  loved  one  low, 
And  for  the  brave  and  beautiful 

Thou  hast  caused  our  tears  to  flow ; 
But  always  near  the  couch  of  death 

Nor  thou,  nor  we  can  stay ; 
And  the  breath  of  thy  departing  wings. 

Dries  all  our  tears  away  ! 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

NOR  did  lack 

Sweet  music  to  the  magic  of  the  scene  : 
The  little  crimson-breasted  Nonpareil 
Was  there,  his  tiny  feet  scarce  bending  down 
The  silken  tendril  that  he  lighted  on 
To  pour  his  love  notes ;  and  in  russet  coat, 
Most  homely,  like  true  genius  bursting  forth 


arii  INTRODUCTION 

In  spite  of  adverse  fortune,  a  full  choir 

Within  himself,  the  merry  Mock  Bird  sate, 

Filling  the  air  with  melody ;  and  at  times, 

In  the  rapt  favor  of  his  sweetest  song, 

His  quivering  form  would  spring  into  the  skyy 

In  spiral  circles,  as  if  he  would  catch 

JView  powers  from  kindred  warblers  in  the  clouds 

Who  would  bend  down  to  greet  him  ! 

These  lines,  addressed  to  the  poet  by  his  father, 
have  a  pathetic  interest :  — 

TO   HARRY 

HARRY,  my  little  blue-eyed  boy, 
I  love  to  have  thee  playing  near ; 

There  's  music  in  thy  shouts  of  joy 
To  a  fond  father's  ear. 

I  love  to  see  the  lines  of  mirth 
Mantle  thy  cheek  and  forehead  fair, 

As  if  all  pleasures  of  the  earth 
Had  met  to  revel  there ; 

For  gazing  on  thee,  do  I  sigh 
That  those  most  happy  years  must  flee, 

And  thy  full  share  of  misery 
Must  fall  in  life  on  thee ! 

There  is  no  lasting  grief  below, 

My  Harry !  that  flows  not  from  guilt ; 

Thou  canst  not  read  my  meaning  now  — 
In  after  times  thou  wilt. 

Thou  'It  read  it  when  the  churchyard  clay 
Shall  lie  upon  thy  father's  breast, 

And  he,  though  dead,  will  point  the  way 
Thou  shalt  be  always  blest. 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

They  '11  tell  thee  this  terrestrial  ball, 
To  man  for  his  enjoyment  given, 

Is  but  a  state  of  sinful  thrall 
To  keep  the  soul  from  heaven. 

My  boy  !  the  verdure-crowned  hills, 
The  vales  where  flowers  innumerous  blow, 

The  music  of  ten  thousand  rills 
Will  tell  thee,  't  is  not  so. 

God  is  no  tyrant  who  would  spread 
Unnumbered  dainties  to  the  eyes, 

Yet  teach  the  hungering  child  to  dread 
That  touching  them  he  dies  ! 

No  !  all  can  do  his  creatures  good, 
He  scatters  round  with  hand  profuse  — 

The  only  precept  understood, 
Enjoy,  but  not  abuse  ! 

The  poet's  mother  was  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
Charles  Prince,  a  citizen  of  Charleston,  whose 
parents  had  come  from  England  just  before  the 
Revolution.  Mr.  Prince  had  married  Miss  French, 
daughter  of  an  officer  in  the  Revolution,  whose 
family  were  from  Switzerland.  It  was  the  influ- 
ence of  his  mother  also  that  helped  to  form  the 
poet's  character,  and  his  intense  and  passionate 
love  of  nature.  Her  beautiful  face  and  form,  her 
purity  and  goodness,  her  delight  in  all  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  the  country,  her  childish  rapture  in 
wood  and  field,  her  love  of  flowers  and  trees,  and 
all  the  mystery  and  gladness  of  nature,  are  among 
the  cherished  memories  of  all  her  children,  and 
vividly  described  by  the  poet's  sister. 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

William  Henry  Timrod,  father  of  the  poet,  died 
of  disease  contracted  in  the  Florida  war,  and  his 
family  thereafter  were  in  straitened  circumstances. 
Nevertheless,  the  early  education  of  his  gifted  son 
was  provided  for.  Paul  H.  Hayne,  the  poet,  was 
one  of  his  earliest  friends  and  schoolmates  at 
Charleston's  best  school.  They  sat  together,  and 
to  his  brother  boy-poet  he  first  showed  his  earliest 
verses  in  exulting  confidence.  This  friendship  and 
confidence  lasted  through  life,  and  Hayne  has  ten- 
derly embalmed  it  in  his  sketch  of  the  poet.  We 
have  this  faithful  picture  of  him  at  that  time :  — 

"  Modest  and  diffident,  with  a  nervous  utterance, 
but  with  melody  ever  in  his  heart  and  on  his  lip. 
Though  always  slow  of  speech,  he  was  yet,  like 
Burns,  quick  to  learn.  The  chariot  wheels  might 
jar  in  the  gate  through  which  he  tried  to  drive  his 
winged  steeds,  but  the  horses  were  of  celestial  tem- 
per and  the  car  purest  gold." 

His  school-fellows  remember  him  as  silent  and 
shy,  full  of  quick  impulse,  and  with  an  eager  ambi- 
tion, insatiable  in  his  thirst  for  books,  yet  mingling 
freely  in  all  sports,  and  rejoicing  unspeakably  in 
the  weekly  holiday  and  its  long  rambles  through 
wood  and  field.  "  The  sweet  security  of  streets  " 
had  no  charm  for  him.  He  rejoiced  in  Nature  and 
her  changing  scenes  and  seasons.  She  was  always 
to  him  comfort,  refreshment,  balm.  She  never 
turned  her  face  from  him,  and  through  all  his 
years  he  "  leaned  on  her  breast  with  loving  trust- 
fulness as  a  little  child." 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

But  he  had  other  teachers.  He  studied  all  classic 
literature.  "  The  ^Eschylean  drama  had  no  attrac- 
tion for  him ;  he  reveled  in  the  rich  and  elegant 
strains  of  Virgil,  and  of  the  many  toned  lyre  of 
Horace  and  the  silver  lute  of  Catullus."  From  the 
full  and  inexhaustible  fountain  of  English  letters 
he  drank  unceasingly.  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  Mil- 
ton, Burns,  Wordsworth,  and,  later,  Tennyson  were 
his  immediate  inspiration. 

His  college  life  at  the  University  of  Georgia  was 
interrupted  by  sickness  and  cramped  by  lack  of 
means,  and  his  literary  plans  were  foiled  by  neces- 
sity. Nevertheless,  he  left  his  Alma  Mater  with  a 
mind  stirred  to  its  depths,  and  with  a  large  store  of 
learning,  and  had  already  sounded  with  clear  note 
those  chords  which  were  afterwards  so  vocal  in 
melody. 

Dr.  J.  Dickson  Bruns  has  left  this  graphic  de- 
scription of  Timrod's  personal  appearance,  and  of 
some  prominent  traits  of  his  social  character  :  — 

"  In  stature,"  he  says,  "  Timrod  was  far  below 
the  medium  height.  He  had  always  excelled  in 
boyish  sports,  and,  as  he  grew  to  manhood,  his 
unusual  breadth  of  shoulder  still  seemed  to  indi- 
cate a  physical  vigor  which  the  slender  wrists,  thin, 
transparent  hands,  and  habitually  lax  attitude  but 
too  plainly  contradicted. 

"The  square  jaw  was  almost  stern  in  its  strongly 
pronounced  lines,  the  mouth  large,  the  lips  exqui- 
sitely sensitive,  the  gray  eyes  set  deeply  under  mas- 
2 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

sive  brows,  and  full  of  a  melancholy  and  pleading 
tenderness,  which  attracted  attention  to  his  face 
at  once,  as  the  face  of  one  who  had  thought  and 
suffered  much. 

"  His  walk  was  quick  and  nervous,  with  an  energy 
in  it  that  betokened  decision  of  character,  but  ill 
sustained  by  the  stammering  speech  ;  for  in  society 
he  was  the  shyest  and  most  undemonstrative  of 
men.  To  a  single  friend  whom  he  trusted,  he 
would  pour  out  his  inmost  heart ;  but  let  two  or 
three  be  gathered  together,  above  all,  introduce  a 
stranger,  and  he  instantly  became  a  quiet,  unob- 
trusive listener,  though  never  a  moody  or  uncon- 
genial one  ! 

"  Among  men  of  letters,  he  was  always  esteemed 
as  a  most  sympathetic  companion  ;  timid,  reserved, 
unready,  if  taken  by  surprise,  but  highly  cultivated, 
and  still  more  highly  endowed. 

"  The  key  to  his  social  character  was  to  be  found 
in  the  feminine  gentleness  of  his  temperament.  He 
shrank  from  noisy  debate,  and  the  wordy  clash  of 
argument,  as  from  a  blow.  It  stunned  and  bewil- 
dered him,  and  left  him,  in  the  melee,  alike  inca- 
pable of  defense  or  attack.  And  yet,  when  some 
burly  protagonist  would  thrust  himself  too  rudely 
into  the  ring,  and  try  to  bear  down  opposition  by 
sheer  vehemence  of  declamation,  from  the  corner 
where  he  sat  ensconced  in  unregarded  silence,  he 
would  suddenly  sling  out  some  sharp,  swift  pebble  of 
thought,  which  he  had  been  slowly  rounding,  and 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

smite  with  an  aim  so  keen  and  true  as  rarely  failed 
to  bring  down  the  boastful  Anakim  !  " 

In  Charleston,  as  a  first  effort  in  life,  for  a  brief 
period  Timrod  attempted  the  law,  but  found  that 
jealous  mistress  unsuited  to  his  life  work,  though 
he  had  all  the  opportunity  afforded  him  in  the 
office  of  his  friend,  the  Hon.  J.  L.  Petigru,  the 
great  jurist.  Leaving  the  bar,  he  thenceforward 
devoted  himself  to  literature  and  to  his  art. 

Charleston  to  Timrod  was  home,  and  he  always 
returned  with  kindling  spirit  to  the  city  of  his  love. 
There  were  all  his  happiest  associations  and  the 
delight  of  purest  friendships,  —  W.  Gilmore  Simms 
and  Paul  Hayne,  and  the  rest  of  the  literary  coterie 
that  presided  over  "  Russell's  Magazine,"  and  Judge 
Bryan  and  Dr.  Bruns  (to  whom  Hayne  dedicated 
his  edition  of  Timrod's  poems),  and  others  were 
of  this  glad  fellowship,  and  his  social  hours  were 
bright  in  their  intercourse  and  in  the  cordial  ap- 
preciation of  his  genius  and  the  tender  love  they 
bore  him.  These  he  never  forgot,  and  returning 
after  the  ravage  of  war  to  his  impoverished  and 
suffering  city,  he  writes,  in  the  last  year  of  his 
young  life,  "  My  eyes  were  blind  to  everything  and 
everybody  but  a  few  old  friends." 

Suited  by  endowment  and  prepared  by  special 
study  for  a  professorship,  still  all  his  efforts  for  the 
academic  chair  failed,  and,  finally,  he  was  com- 
pelled to  become  a  private  teacher,  an  office  the 
sacredness  of  which  he  profoundly  realized.  In 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

his  leisure  hours  he  now  gave  himself  up  to  deeper 
study  of  nature,  literature,  and  man.  It  was  in 
these  few  years  of  quiet  retreat  that  he  wrote  the 
poems  contained  in  the  first  edition  of  his  works, 
1859-60,  which,  laden  with  all  the  poet's  longing 
to  be  heard,  were  little  heeded  in  the  first  great 
shock  of  war.  Indeed,  in  such  a  storm,  what  shel- 
ter could  a  poet  find  ?  An  ardent  Carolinian,  de- 
voted to  his  native  State  with  an  allegiance  as  to 
his  country,  he  left  his  books  and  study,  and  threw 
himself  into  the  struggle,  a  volunteer  in  the  army. 
In  the  first  years  of  the  war  he  was  in  and  near 
Charleston,  and  wrote  those  memorable  poems  and 
martial  lyrics:  "Carolina,"  "A  Call  to  Arms," 
"  Charleston,"  "  Ripley,"  "  Ethnogenesis,"  and 
"  The  Cotton  Boll,"  which  deeply  stirred  the  heart 
of  his  State,  and,  indeed,  of  the  whole  South.  His 
was  the  voice  of  his  people.  Under  its  spell  the 
public  response  was  quick,  and  promised  largest 
honor  and  world-wide  fame  for  the  poet.  The  pro- 
ject formed  by  some  of  the  most  eminent  men  of 
the  State,  late  in  1862,  was  to  publish  an  illustrated 
and  highly  embellished  edition  of  his  works  in  Lon- 
don. The  war  correspondent  of  the  "  London 
Illustrated  News."  Vizitelly,  himself  an  artist,  pro- 
mised original  illustrations,  and  the  future  seemed 
bright  for  the  gratification  of  his  heart's  desire,  to 
be  known  and  heard  in  the  great  literary  centre  of 
the  English-speaking  world.  But  disappointment 
again  was  his  lot  Amid  the  increasing  stress  of 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

the  conflict,  every  public  and  private  energy  in  the 
South  was  absorbed  in  maintaining  the  ever  weak- 
ening struggle  ;  and  with  all  art  and  literature  and 
learning  our  poet's  hopes  were  buried  in  the  com- 
mon grave  of  war ;  not  because  he  was  not  loved 
and  cherished,  and  his  genius  appreciated,  but 
because  a  terrible  need  was  upon  his  people, 
and  desperate  issues  were  draining  their  life-blood. 
Then  he  went  to  the  front.  Too  weak  for  the  field 
(for  the  fatal  weakness  that  finally  sapped  his  life 
was  then  upon  him),  he  was  compelled,  under 
medical  direction,  to  retire  from  the  battle  ranks, 
and  made  a  last  desperate  effort  to  serve  the  cause 
he  loved  as  a  war  correspondent.  In  this  capacity 
he  joined  the  great  army  of  the  West  after  the 
battle  of  Shiloh.  The  story  of  his  camp  life  was 
indeed  pathetic.  Dr.  Bruns  writes  of  him  then : 
"  One  can  scarcely  conceive  of  a  situation  more 
hopelessly  wretched  than  that  of  a  mere  child  in 
the  world's  ways  suddenly  flung  down  into  the 
heart  of  that  strong  retreat,  and  tossed  like  a  straw 
on  the  crest  of  those  refluent  waves  from  which  he 
escaped  as  by  a  miracle."  Home  he  came,  baffled, 
dispirited,  and  sore  hurt,  to  receive  the  succor  of 
generous  friendship,  and  for  a  brief  time  a  safe 
congenial  refuge,  in  1864,  in  an  editor's  chair  of 
the  "  South  Carolinian,"  at  the  capital  of  his  native 
State.  Here  his  strong  pen  wrote  the  stirring  edi- 
torials of  that  critical  time,  and  there,  tempted  by 
the  passing  hour  of  comparative  calm,  he  mar- 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

ried  Miss  Kate  Goodwin,  "  Katie,  the  fair  Saxon  " 
of  his  exquisite  song.  Here  the  war  that  had 
broken  all  his  plans,  and  wrecked  his  health  and 
hopes,  and  made  literature  for  a  time  in  the  South 
a  beggar's  vocation,  left  him  with  wife  and  child, 
the  "  darling  Willie  "  of  his  verse,  dependent  upon 
his  already  sapped  and  fast  failing  strength  for 
support.  Here  he  saw  the  capital  of  his  native 
State,  marked  for  vengeance,  pitilessly  destroyed 
by  fire  and  sword.  Here  gaunt  ruin  stalked  and 
want  entered  his  own  home,  made  desolate  as  all 
the  hearthstones  of  his  people.  Here  the  peace 
that  ensued  was  the  peace  of  the  desert !  Here 
the  army,  defeated  and  broken,  came  back  after 
the  long  heroic  struggle  to  blackened  chimneys, 
sole  vestige  of  home,  and  the  South,  with  not  even 
bread  for  her  famished  children,  still  stood  in 
solemn  silence  by  those  deeper  furrows  watered 
with  blood.  The  suffering  that  he  endured  was 
the  common  suffering  of  those  around  him,  —  actual 
physical  want  and  lack  of  the  commonest  comforts 
of  life,  felt  most  keenly  by  his  sensitive  nature  and 
delicate  constitution.  In  the  midst  of  this  fierce 
stress,  his  darling  boy,  the  crown  of  his  life,  died. 
All  his  affections,  it  seemed,  were  poured  out  at 
once,  as  water  spilled  upon  the  ground.  He  was 
dying  of  consumption,  and  earth  shadows  crowded 
around  him. 

Though  long  in  feeble  health,  his  last  illness  was 
brief.   The  best  physicians  lovingly  gave  their  skill- 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

ful  ministration,  and  the  State's  most  eminent  men, 
in  their  common  need,  tenderly  cared  for  him  and 
his.  With  death  before  him,  he  clung  passionately 
to  his  art,  absorbed  in  that  alone  and  in  the  great 
Beyond.  His  latest  occupation  was  correcting  the 
proof-sheets  of  his  own  poems,  and  he  passed  away 
with  them  by  his  side,  stained  with  his  life-blood. 

In  the  autumn  of  1867  he  was  laid  by  his  beloved 
child  in  Trinity  churchyard,  Columbia,  S.  C.  Gen- 
eral Hampton,  Governor  Thompson,  and  other 
great  Carolinians  bore  him  to  the  grave,  —  a  grave 
that,  through  the  sackcloth  of  the  Reconstruction 
period  in  South  Carolina,  remained  without  a  stone. 
But  as  he  himself  wrote  of  the  host  of  the  Southern 
dead  of  the  war,  — 

"  In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 
And  somewhere  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone." 

In  later  years  loving  friends  reared  a  small 
memorial  shaft  to  mark  his  grave.  It  was  in  that 
dark  period  that  Carl  McKinley's  genius  was 
touched  to  these  fine  lines. 

AT  TIMROD'S   GRAVE.      1877 

HARP  of  the  South !  no  more,  no  more 

Thy  silvery  strings  shall  quiver, 
The  one  strong  hand  might  win  thy  strains 

Is  chilled  and  stilled  forever. 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

Our  one  sweet  singer  breaks  no  more 

The  silence  sad  and  long, 
The  land  is  hushed  from  shore  to  shore, 

It  brooks  no  feebler  song ! 

No  other  voice  can  charm  our  ears, 
None  other  soothe  our  pain ; 

Better  these  echoes  lingering  yet, 
Than  any  ruder  strain. 

For  singing,  Fate  has  given  sighs, 
For  music  we  make  moan ; 

Oh,  who  may  touch  the  harp-strings  since 
That  whisper  —  "  He  is  gone  !  " 

See  where  he  lies  —  his  last  sad  home 

Of  all  memorial  bare, 
Save  for  a  little  heap  of  leaves 

The  winds  have  gathered  there  ! 

One  fair  frail  shell  from  some  far  sea 
Lies  lone  above  his  breast, 

Sad  emblem  and  sole  epitaph 
To  mark  his  place  of  rest. 

The  sweet  winds  murmur  in  its  heart 

A  music  soft  and  low, 
As  they  would  bring  their  secrets  still 

To  him  who  sleeps  below. 

And  lo !  one  tender,  tearful  bloom 
Wins  upward  through  the  grass, 

As  some  sweet  thought  he  left  unsung 
Were  blossoming  at  last. 

Wild  weeds  grow  rank  about  the  place, 
A  dark,  cold  spot,  and  drear ; 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

The  dull  neglect  that  marked  his  life 
Has  followed  even  here. 

Around  shine  many  a  marble  shaft 

And  polished  pillars  fair, 
And  strangers  stand  on  Timrod's  grave 

To  praise  them,  unaware  ! 

"  Hold  up  the  glories  of  thy  dead !  " 

To  thine  own  self  be  true, 
Land  that  he«4oved  !     Come,  honor  now 
This  grave  that  honors  you ! 

The  one  characteristic  above  all  others  that 
marked  the  poet's  life  was  his  unfaltering  trust,  — 
the  soul's  unclouded  sky,  a  quenchless  radiance 
of  blessed  sunlight  amid  the  deep  darkness  that 
encompassed  him. 

As  in  his  poetry  there  is  no  false  note,  no  doubt- 
ful sentiment,  no  selfish  grief,  even  when  he  sings 
with  breast  against  the  thorn,  so  in  his  life  do  we 
find  no  word  of  bitterness  or  moaning  or  com- 
plaining. Even  amid  the  terrible  blight  of  war 
and  its  final  utter  ruin,  prophet-like,  he  speaks  in 
faith  and  hope  and  courage.  His  own  heart  break- 
ing, and  life  ebbing,  he  writes  of  Spring  as  the  true 
Reconstruction ist,  and  pleads  her  message  to  his 
stricken  people.  It  is  so  true  and  prophetic  that 
we  quote  the  words  written  in  April,  1866. 

"For  Spring  is  a  true  Reconstructionist,  —  a 
reconstructionist  in  the  best  and  most  practical 
sense.  There  is  not  a  nook  in  the  land  in  which 
she  is  not  at  this  moment  exerting  her  influence 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

in  preparing  a  way  for  the  restoration  of  the  South. 
No  politician  may  oppose  her ;  her  power  defies 
embarrassment;  but  she  is  not  altogether  inde- 
pendent of  help.  She  brings  us  balmy  airs  and 
gentle  dews,  golden  suns  and  silver  rains  ;  and  she 
says  to  us,  *  These  are  the  materials  of  the  only 
work  in  which  you  need  be  at  present  concerned ; 
avail  yourselves  of  them  to  reclothe  your  naked 
country  and  feed  your  impoverished  people,  and 
you  will  find  that,  in  the  discharge  of  that  task,  you 
have  taken  the  course  which  will  most  certainly 
and  most  peacefully  conduct  you  to  the  position 
which  you  desire.  Turn  not  aside  to  bandy  epi- 
thets with  your  enemies ;  stuff  your  ears,  like  the 
princess  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  against  words  of 
insult  and  wrong;  pause  not  to  muse  over  your 
condition,  or  to  question  your  prospects ;  but  toil  on 
bravely,  silently,  surely.'  .  .  . 

"  Such  are  the  words  of  wise  and  kindly  counsel, 
which,  if  we  attend  rightly,  we  may  all  hear  in  the 
winds  and  read  in  the  skies  of  Spring.  Nowhere, 
however,  does  she  speak  with  so  eloquent  a  voice 
or  so  pathetic  an  effect  as  in  this  ruined  town.  She 
covers  our  devastated  courts  with  images  of  reno- 
vation in  the  shape  of  flowers  ;  she  hangs  once 
more  in  our  blasted  gardens  the  fragrant  lamps  of 
the  jessamine  ;  in  our  streets  she  kindles  the  maple 
like  a  beacon  ;  and  from  amidst  the  charred  and 
blackened  ruins  of  once  happy  homes  she  pours, 
through  the  mouth  of  her  favorite  musician,  the 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

mocking-bird,  a  song  of  hope  and  joy.  What  is 
the  lesson  which  she  designs  by  these  means  to 
convey  ?  It  may  be  summed  in  a  single  sentence, 
—  forgetfulness  of  the  past,  effort  in  the  present, 
and  trust  for  the  future." 

Such  was  the  lofty  creed  and  last  hopeful,  but 
dying  message  to  his  brothers  of  the  South,  whose 
war  songs  he  had  written,  and  the  requiem  of 
whose  martyred  hosts  he  had  chanted. 

Such  was  the  tragedy  that  ended  in  October,  1867, 
with  the  hero  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven ;  glory, 
genius,  anguish,  tears,  but  unconquerable  faith  and 
heroic  fortitude.  His  larger  life  scarce  begun,  his 
full  power  felt,  but  only  half  expressed,  he  realized 
deeply  — 

"  The  petty  done,  the  vast  undone  !  " 

He  yearned  with  passionate  longing  and  hope  and 
conscious  might  to  fulfill  an  even  greater  mission  ; 
but  in  the  infinite  providence  of  God  the  full  fruit- 
age of  this  exquisite  soul  was  for  another  sphere. 
He  was  indeed  "  one  of  those  who  stirred  us,  a 
friend  of  man  and  a  lover.  In  no  country  of  this 
earth  could  he  long  have  been  an  alien,  and  that 
may  now  be  said  of  his  spirit.  In  no  part  of  this 
universe  could  it  feel  lonely  or  unbefriended ;  it 
was  in  harmony  with  all  that  flowers  or  gives  per- 
fume in  life." 

The  story  of  his  last  days,  as  given  by  his  poet- 
friend,  Paul  Hayne,  at  the  latter's  cottage  among 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

the  pines,  is  of  tender  and  peculiar  interest,  and 
we  quote  it  here,  as  it  was  written  in  1873  :  — 

...  In  the  latter  summer-tide  of  this  same  year 
(1867),  I  again  persuaded  him  to  visit  me.  Ah !  how 
sacred  now,  how  sad  and  sweet,  are  the  memories  of 
that  rich,  clear,  prodigal  August  of  '67 ! 

We  would  rest  on  the  hillsides,  in  the  swaying  golden 
shadows,  watching  together  the  Titanic  masses  of  snow- 
white  clouds  which  floated  slowly  and  vaguely  through 
the  sky,  suggesting  by  their  form,  whiteness,  and  serene 
motion,  despite  the  season,  flotillas  of  icebergs  upon 
Arctic  seas.  Like  Lazzaroni  we  basked  in  the  quiet 
noons,  sunk  into  the  depths  of  reverie,  or  perhaps  of 
yet  more  "  charmed  sleep."  Or  we  smoked,  conversing 
lazily  between  the  puffs, 

"  Next  to  some  pine  whose  antique  roots  just  peeped 
From  out  the  crumbling  bases  of  the  sand." 

But  the  evenings,  with  their  gorgeous  sunsets  "  rolling 
down  like  a  chorus  "  and  the  "  gray-eyed  melancholy 
gloaming,"  were  the  favorite  hours  of  the  day  with  him. 
He  would  often  apostrophize  twilight  in  the  language 
of  Wordsworth's  sonnet :  — 

"  Hail,  twilight !  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour ! 
Not  dull  art  thou  as  undiscerning  night ; 
But  only  studious  to  remove  from  sight 
Day's  mutable  distinctions." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  she  is  indeed  sovereign  of  one  peace- 
ful  hour !  In  the  hardest,  busiest  time  one  feels  the 
calm,  merciful-minded  queen  stealing  upon  one  in  the 
fading  light,  and  *  whispering,1  as  Ford  has  it  (or  is  it 
Fletcher  ?),  —  *  whispering  tranquillity.'  " 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

When  in-doors  and  disposed  to  read,  he  took  much 
pleasure  in  perusing  the  poems  of  Robert  Buchanan 
and  Miss  Ingelow.  The  latter's  "  Ballads  "  particularly 
delighted  him.  One,  written  "  in  the  old  English  man- 
ner," he  quickly  learned  by  heart,  repeating  it  with  a 
relish  and  fervor  indescrilJable. 

Here  is  the  opening  stanza :  — 

"  Come  out  and  hear  the  waters  shoot,  the  owlet  hoot,  the 

owlet  hoot ; 
Yon  crescent  moon,  a  golden  boat,  hangs  dim  behind  the 

tree,  O  ! 
The  dropping  thorn  makes  white  the  grass,  O  !  sweetest  lass, 

and  sweetest  lass 
Come  out  and  smell  the  ricks  of  hay  adown  the  croft  with 

me,  O  ! " 

With  but  a  slight  effort  of  memory  I  can  vividly 
recall  his  voice  and  manner  in  repeating  these  simple 
yet  beautiful  lines. 

They  were  the  last  verses  I  ever  heard  from  the  poet's 
lips. 

Just  as  the  woods  were  assuming  their  first  delicate 
autumnal  tints,  Timrod  took  his  leave  of  us.  In  a  con- 
versation on  the  night  but  one  previous  to  his  depar- 
ture, we  had  been  speaking  of  Dr.  Parr  and  other  liter- 
ary persons  of  unusual  age,  when  he  observed :  "  I 
have  n't  the  slightest  desire,  P ,  to  be  an  octogena- 
rian, far  less  a  centenarian,  like  old  Parr;  but  I  hope 
that  I  may  be  spared  until  I  am  fifty  or  fifty-five." 

"  About  Shakespeare's  age,"  I  suggested. 

"  Oh ! "  he  replied,  smiling,  "  I  was  not  thinking  of 
THAT ;  but  I  'm  sure  that  after  fifty-five  I  would  begin 
to  wither,  mind  and  body,  and  one  hates  the  idea  of  a 
mummy,  intellectual  or  physical.  Do  you  remember 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

that  picture  of  extreme  old  age  which  Charles  Reade 
gives  us  in  *  Never  too  Late  to  Mend '  ?  George 
Fielding,  the  hero,  is  about  going  away  from  England 
to  try  his  luck  in  Australia.  All  his  friends  and  rela- 
tions are  around  him,  expressing  their  sorrow  at  his 
enforced  voyage ;  all  but  his  grandfather,  aged  ninety- 
two,  who  sits  stolid  and  mumbling  in  his  armchair. 

"  '  Grandfather ! '  shouts  George  into  the  deafened 
ears,  '  I  'm  going  a  long  journey ;  mayhap  shall  never 
see  you  again ;  speak  a  word  to  me  before  I  go ! ' 
Grandfather  looks  up,  brightens  for  a  moment,  and 
cackles  feebly  out :  '  George,  fetch  me  some  snuff  trom 
where  you  're  going.  See  now '  (half  whimpering),  *  I  'm 
out  of  snuff.'  A  good  point  in  the  way  of  illustration, 
but  not  a  pleasant  picture." 

On  the  1 3th  of  September,  ten  days  after  Timrod's 
return  to  Columbia,  he  wrote  me  the  following  note  :  — 

"  Dear  P :  I  have  been  too  sick  to  write  before, 

and  am  still  too  sick  to  drop  you  more  than  a  few  lines. 
You  will  be  surprised  and  pained  to  hear  that  I  have 
had  a  severe  hemorrhage  of  the  lungs. 

"  I  did  not  come  home  an  instant  too  soon.  I  found 
them  without  money  or  provisions.  Fortunately  I 
brought  with  me  a  small  sum.  I  won't  tell  you  how 
small,  but  six  dollars  of  it  was  from  the  editor  of  the 
'  Opinion '  for  my  last  poem. 

"  I  left  your  climate  to  my  injury.  But  not  only  for 
the  sake  of  my  health,  1  begin  already  to  look  back  with 
longing  regret  to  '  Copse  Hill.'  You  have  all  made  me 
feel  as  if  I  had  two  beloved  homes  ! 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  divide  myself  between  them  ;  or 
that  I  had  wings,  so  that  I  might  flit  from  one  to  other 
in  a  moment. 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

"  I  hope  soon  to  write  you  at  length.     Yours,"  etc. 

Again  on  the  i6th  I  heard  from  him,  thus :  — 

"Yesterday  I  had  a  still  more  copious  hemor- 
rhage! .  .  . 

"  I  am  lying  supine  in  bed,  forbidden  to  speak  or 
make  any  exertion  whatever.  But  I  can't  resist  the 
temptation  of  dropping  you  a  line,  in  the  hope  of  call- 
ing forth  a  score  or  two  from  you  in  return. 

"  An  awkward  time  this  for  me  to  be  sick  !  We  are 
destitute  of  funds,  almost  of  food.  But  God  will  pro- 
vide! 

"  I  send  you  a  Sonnet,  written  the  other  day,  as  an 
Obituary  for  Mr.  Harris  Simons.  Tell  me  what  you 
think  of  it  —  be  sure  !  Love  to  your  mother,  wife,  and 
my  precious  Willie  [since  the  death  of  his  own  child  he 
had  turned  with  a  yearning  affection  to  my  boy].  Let 
me  hear  from  you  soon  —  very  soon!  You'll  do  me 
more  good  than  medicines  !  "  etc. 

On  the  25th  of  the  month  confidence  in  Timrod's 
recovery  was  confirmed  by  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Good- 
win: — 

"  Our  brother,"  she  writes,  "  is  decidedly  better ;  and 
if  there  be  no  recurrence  of  the  hemorrhage  will,  I  hope, 
be  soon  convalescent !  " 

A  week  and  upwards  passed  on  in  silence.  I  received 
no  more  communications  from  Columbia.  But  early  in 
October  a  vaguely  threatening  report  reached  my  ears. 
On  the  pth  it  was  mournfully  confirmed.  Forty-eight 
hours  before,  Henry  Timrod  had  expired ! 

On  the  7th  of  October,  the  mortal  remains  of  the 
poet,  so  worn  and  shattered,  were  buried  in  the  ceme- 
tery of  Trinity  Church,  Columbia. 

There,  in  the   ruined  capital  of   his  native  State, 


xxx  INTRODUCTION 

whence  scholarship,  culture,  and  social  purity  have  been 
banished  to  give  place  to  the  orgies  of  semi-barbarians 
and  the  political  trickery  of  adventurers  and  traitors; 
there,  tranquil  amid  the  vulgar  turmoil  of  factions, 
reposes  the  dust  of  one  of  the  truest  and  sweetest 
singers  this  country  has  given  to  the  world. 

Nature,  kinder  to  his  senseless  ashes  than  ever  For- 
tune had  been  to  the  living  man,  is  prodigal  around 
his  grave  —  unmarked  and  unrecorded  though  it  be  — 
of  her  flowers  and  verdant  grasses,  of  her  rains  that 
fertilize,  and  her  purifying  dews.  The  peace  he  loved, 
and  so  vainly  longed  for  through  stormy  years,  has 
crept  to  him  at  last,  but  only  to  fall  upon  the  pallid  eye- 
lids, closed  forever  ;  upon  the  pulseless  limbs,  and  the 
breathless,  broken  heart.  Still  it  is  good  to  know  that 

"  After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well." 

Yet,  from  this  mere  material  repose,  this  quiet  of 
decaying  atoms,  surely  the  most  skeptical  of  thinkers, 
in  contemplation  of  such  a  life  and  such  a  death,  must 
instinctively  look  from  earth  to  heaven ;  from  the 
bruised  and  mouldering  clod  to  the  spirit  infinitely 
exalted,  and  radiant  in  redemption. 

"  A  calm,  a  beautiful,  a  sacred  star." 

The  poetic  creed  of  Timrod,  expressed  in  his 
"  Vision  of  Poesy,"  set  the  impress  upon  all  his 
work.  Conscious  of  his  power,  he  reverently 
believed  in  the  mission  of  the  poet  as  prophet  and 
teacher,  — 

"  The  mission  of  Genius  on  Earth  !  To  uplift, 
Purify,  and  confirm,  by  its  own  gracious  gift. 
The  world,"  — 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

and  he  has  consecrated  his  gift  to  its  noblest  uses 
in  the  discharge  of  that  "  high  and  holy  debt." 

As  lover  of  man  and  nature,  his  sympathy  was 
universal  j  no  theme  was  too  humble  for  his  pen. 
"  The  same  law  that  moulds  a  planet  forms  a  drop 
of  dew."  "  Humility  is  power  !  "  "  We  may  trace 
the  mighty  sun  above  even  by  the  shadow  of  a 
slender  flower."  Yet  he  dealt  not  with  the  fleeting ; 
that  was  only  the  passing  form  of  the  abiding. 
Passionately  fond  as  he  was  of  Nature,  and  nour- 
ished and  refreshed  by  her  always,  he  never  wrote 
a  line  of  mere  descriptive  poetry.  Nature  is  only 
the  symbol,  the  image,  to  interpret  his  spiritual 
meaning.  He  felt  with  Milton,  in  his  noble  words, 
that  the  abiding  work  is  not  raised  in  the  heat 
of  youth  or  the  vapors  of  wine,  or  by  "  invocation 
to  4ame  Memory  and  her  siren  daughters,  but  by 
devout  prayer  to  that  Eternal  Spirit  who  can  enrich 
with  all  utterance  and  knowledge,  and  send  out 
his  seraphim  with  the  hallowed  fire  of  his  altars  to 
touch  and  purify  the  lips  of  whom  He  pleases." 

Under  that  inspiration  and  revelation  the  poet  is 
a  divine  interpreter  of  (in  his  own  words)  — 

"  All  lovely  things,  and  gentle  —  the  sweet  laugh 

Of  children,  Girlhood's  kiss,  and  Friendship's  clasp, 
The  boy  that  sporteth  with  the  old  man's  staff, 
The  baby,  and  the  breast  its  fingers  grasp  — 
All  that  exalts  the  grounds  of  happiness, 
All  griefs  that  hallow,  and  all  joys  that  bless, 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

"  To  me  are  sacred ;  at  my  holy  shrine 

Love  breathes  its  latest  dreams,  its  earliest  hints; 

I  turn  life's  tasteless  waters  into  wine, 

And  flush  them  through  and  through  with  purple  tints. 

Wherever  Earth  is  fair,  and  Heaven  looks  down, 

I  rear  my  altars,  and  I  wear  my  crown." 

It  was  this  mission  of  Poetry  that  filled  his  mind 
and  heart  and  life  with  abiding  light,  which  made 
him  cling  passionately  to  life,  not  because  of  any 
physical  fear  of  death,  but  because  in  that  mission 
Art  and  Nature  were  so  inexpressibly  rich  and 
sweet  to  him  to  reveal  his  message  to  man.  In 
the  benediction  of  his  dying  words,  "  Love  is 
sweeter  than  rest !  " 

The  moral  purity  of  these  poems  is  their  dis- 
tinctive quality,  as  it  was  of  the  man.  With  a 
universal  sympathy  for  all  life,  still  he  moved 
always  on  the  highest  planes  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing and  purpose.  He  seemed  always  to  be  im- 
pressed in  his  art  with  the  truth  of  his  own  lines,  — 

"  There  is  no  unimpressive  spot  on  earth, 
The  beauty  of  the  stars  is  over  all." 

His  earnestness  and  deep  poetic  insight  clothed 
all  themes  with  the  beauty  and  light  that  is  in  and 
over  all. 

Timrod's  melancholy,  the  finest  test  of  high 
poetic  quality,  when  purified  and  spiritualized,  has 
no  Byronic  bitterness,  no  selfish  morbidness,  no 
impenetrable  gloom,  but  in  his  own  exquisite  lines 
it  is,  — 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

"  A  shadowy  land,  where  joy  and  sorrow  kiss, 

Each  still  to  each  corrective  and  relief, 
Where  dim  delights  are  brightened  into  bliss, 
And  nothing  wholly  perishes  but  Grief. 

"  Ah,  me  !  —  not  dies  —  no  more  than  spirit  dies ; 

But  in  a  change  like  death  is  clothed  with  wings ; 
A  serious  angel,  with  entranced  eyes, 
Looking  to  far  off  and  celestial  things." 

Again,  in  all  these  poems  there  is  a  nameless 
spell  of  a  simplicity,  fervid  yet  tender,  and  an 
imagination,  strong  yet  delicate,  both  in  its  percep- 
tion and  expression. 

His  style,  "  like  noble  music  unto  noble  words," 
is  elaborate,  yet  perfectly  natural.  There  is  no 
trace  of  labor ;  grace  guides  and  power  impels. 
So  perfect  is  it  at  times  in  its  natural  power  that 
the  mind  is  almost  unconscious  of  the  word-symbol 
in  grasping  immediately  the  thought  revealed. 

There  is  in  the  verse  a  ceaseless  melody  and 
perfect  finish.  At  times  there  is  "  the  easy  ele- 
gance of  Catullus,"  always  his  delight,  and  a  metri- 
cal translation  of  whose  poems  he  had  completed. 

Rare  endowment  with  broad  culture  is  evinced 
in  the  high  intellectual  level  always  maintained ; 
and  the  evenness  of  quality  that  is  always  of  the 
mountain  top.  He  always  knows  his  power,  and 
its  range.  His  song  is  always  clear  and  true. 

Moreover,  with  a  universality  of  poetic  feeling, 
he  has  struck  every  chord,  and  always  with  a  keen 
sensibility  and  delicacy  of  natural  instinct.  Among 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 

the  finest  poems,  how  wide  is  this  range  and  varied 
this  power ! 

"  The  Vision  of  Poesy,"  his  longest  work,  writ- 
ten in  youth,  essaying  the  mission  and  the  phi- 
losophy of  the  poetic  art,  has  some  lofty  passages, 
and  all  the  promise  of  his  later  power,  felicity,  and 
melody. 

"  A  Year's  Courtship  "  is  in  its  glow,  and  grace, 
and  music  the  perfection  of  classic  art. 

The  dainty  voluptuousness  in  a  "  Serenade " 
kindles  with  the  luxuriousness  of  the  South. 

His  "  Praeceptor  Amat "  is  warm  with  the  breath 
of  rapturous  feeling,  and  rich  with  the  fragrance  of 
flowers. 

" Ethnogenesis,"  "the  birth  of  the  nation,"  is 
regarded  by  some  his  greatest  poem.  It  is  pro- 
phecy linked  with  the  hope  and  aspiration  of  the 
newborn  nation  of  the  South.  A  permanent  image 
of  the  Southern  nature  and  character  is  thus  richly 

portrayed  :  — 

"  But  the  type 

Whereby  we  shall  be  known  in  every  land 
Is  that  vast  gulf  which  lips  our  Southern  strand, 
And  through  the  cold,  untempered  ocean  pours 
Its  genial  streams,  that  far  off  Arctic  shores 
May  sometimes  catch  upon  the  softened  breeze 
Strange  tropic  warmth  and  hints  of  summer  seas." 

The  Cotton  Boll,"  in  "  the  snow  of  Southern 
summers,"  is  a  forerunner  of  Lanier's  "  Corn." 
It  reveals  the  mystic  spell  and  kingly  power  of 
that  far-stretching  tropic  snow,  and  contains  that 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

glowing  painting  of  Carolina  from  sea  to  mountain, 
which  closes 

"  No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays, 
Or  given  a  home  to  man  ! " 

"Too  Long,  O  Spirit  of  Storm,"  is  the  fused 
passion  of  the  poet's  heart  appalled  at  the  moral 
death  of  stagnation.  It  has  all  the  intensity  and 
subtlety  of  Shelley. 

In  "  The  Lily  Confidante,"  delicate-  and  fanciful 
as  it  is,  the  reply  of  the  Lily  "  is  a  simple  yet  sacred 
melody,"  hallowing  the  purity  of  passion. 

"  The  Arctic  Voyager "  suggests  Tennyson's 
"Ulysses"  in  its  high  faith,  lofty  purpose,  and 
sustained  power. 

"  Spring "  is  the  burst  of  the  Southern  spring, 
in  its  flooding  life  and  glory  and  beauty.  There  is 
"  a  nameless  pathos  in  the  air."  A  wonderful  reve- 
lation is  going  on  before  our  eyes !  No  miracle 
could  startle  in  the  ever  new  creation,  so  strange 
and  rapturous  is  this  joy  of  sense  and  spiritual 
rebirth. 

Nor  was  his  genius  only  reflective,  and  creative, 
and  playful ;  his  was  a  trumpet  voice  also.  When 
the  blast  of  war  sounded,  his  voice  rang  like  a 
clarion  in  "Carolina"  and  "Call  to  Arms."  Be- 
yond their  local  meaning,  which  kindles  and  thrills, 
now  as  then,  the  men  of  the  South,  they  have  an 
abiding,  universal  power  from  the  standpoint  of 
art ;  for  there  is  nothing  finer  in  all  the  martial 
strains  of  the  lyric. 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 

Paul  Hayne,  his  brother  poet,  speaking  of  "  Caro- 
lina," as  "  lines  destined  perhaps  to  outlive  the 
political  vitality  of  the  State,  whose  antique  fame 
they  celebrate,"  said  :  — 

"  I  read  them  first,  and  was  thrilled  by  their 
power  and  pathos,  upon  a  stormy  March  evening 
in  Fort  Sumter !  Walking  along  the  battlements, 
under  the  red  light  of  a  tempestuous  sunset,  the 
wind  steadily  and  loudly  blowing  from  off  the  bar 
across  the  tossing  and  moaning  waste  of  waters, 
driven  inland ;  with  scores  of  gulls  and  white  sea- 
birds  flying  and  shrieking  round  me,  —  those  wild 
voices  of  Nature  mingled  strangely  with  the  rhyth- 
mic roll  and  beat  of  the  poet's  impassioned  music. 
The  very  spirit,  or  dark  genius,  of  the  troubled 
scene  appeared  to  take  up  and  to  repeat  such 
verses  as  — 

"  '  I  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 

That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 
Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina ! 

And  now  it  deepens  ;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as  rolling  to  the  land, 
An  ocean  broke  upon  the  strand, 

Carolina ! 

Shout !  let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns  ! 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns  ! 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! ' " 

Profoundly  appealing  as  are  Timrod's  war  strains, 
for  they  are  the  heart-cry  of  a  people,  still  it  should 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

be  noted  that  there  is  scarcely  a  battle  ode  that 
does  not  close  with  an  invocation  to  peace,  such 
was  the  lofty  nature  of  the  poet.  War  to  him  was 
only  the  drawn  sword  of  right,  and  truth,  and  jus- 
tice, which  accomplished,  the  prayer  for  peace  was 
ever  on  his  lips,  as  witness  the  noble  invocation  to 
Peace,  closing  his  "  Christmas,"  that  has  so  often 
stirred  and  hushed  at  once  the  heart  of  the  South. 
The  Ode,  written  for  Memorial  Day,  April,  1867, 
of  the  Confederate  graves  at  Charleston,  was  his 
last  production.  He  had  sung  in  lofty  strains  each 
phase  of  the  struggle,  its  hope,  its  courage,  its  fear, 
its  despair  ;  he  now  sings  his  latest  song,  a  wreath 
of  flowers  upon  the  unmarked  graves  of  the  South- 
ern dead,  and  has  hallowed  these  sacred  mounds  to 
his  people  in  the  words,  — 

"  There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 
By  mourning  beauty  crowned  !  " 

These  poems  are  written  in  the  life-blood  of  the 
poet  and  his  generation.  The  patriotic  fire,  the 
devoted  sacrifice  and  splendid  achievement,  that 
"Carolina,"  "Cry  to  Arms,"  "Unknown  Dead," 
"  Carmen  Triumphale,"  "  Charleston,"  "  Storm  and 
Calm,"  and  the  other  of  the  war  poems  celebrate 
were  not  only  the  rushing  tide  of  earnest  feeling 
of  a  noble  people  then,  but  are  now  a  part  of  the 
glory  and  heritage  of  the  State,  of  the  South,  and 
of  the  American  republic.  They  were  the  mighty 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION 

heart-beats  of  that  great  epoch.  They  are  now 
irrevocable  history,  and  make  these  poems  a  part 
of  the  abiding  literature  of  America. 

"  A  Common  Thought "  is  the  poet's  premonition 
of  his  end ;  but  he  sees  no  vision  of  the  dying 
glory  of  sunset,  no  going  out  into  the  dark,  no  pre- 
sentiment of  a  vague  and  gloomy  voyage  on  a 
homeless  sea ;  but  in  the  sunshine,  in  the  growing 
light  of  ever  broadening  day,  amid  the  joy  and 
splendor  of  nature,  bright  prophecy  and  intuition 
of  immortality,  is  to  come  the  sudden,  solemn 
mystery  of  the  whisper,  "  He  is  gone ! "  And  so 
it  was.  For  as  the  sun  broadened  into  glad  day, 
and  the  full  radiance  illumined  and  animated  earth 
and  sea  and  sky,  "  as  it  purpled  in  the  zenith,  as  it 
brightened  on  the  lawn,"  this  rich  young  life,  in 
its  own  fresh  morning  of  genius  and  spiritual  sun- 
shine, passed,  and  in  his  own  triumphant  words,  — 

"  not  dies,  no  more  than  Spirit  dies ; 
But  in  a  change  like  death  was  clothed  with  wings." 


THE  LATE  JUDGE  GEORGE  S.  BRYAN 

IT  would  not  be  fitting  that  this  memorial  edi- 
tion of  Timrod's  Poems  should  go  forth  to  the 
world  without  proper  recognition,  on  the  part  of 
the  TIMROD  MEMORIAL  ASSOCIATION,  of  the  relation 
occupied  and  the  services  rendered  to  the  poet  in 
his  lifetime  by  the  late  Hon.  George  S.  Bryan,  of 
Charleston.  During  the  whole  of  Timrod's  career 
Judge  Bryan  was  his  devoted  friend,  ever  ready  to 
assist  him  materially,  morally  and  in  every  other 
respect. 

His  faith  in  Timrod's  genius  never  wavered,  and 
but  for  his  early  assistance,  sympathy,  and  encour- 
agement, much  of  the  fruit  of  that  genius  would 
have  been  lost  or  wasted.  He  helped  him  in  ad- 
versity, cheered  him  in  his  hours  of  anxiety  and 
despondency,  and  from  first  to  last,  throughout  the 
literary  and  spiritual  history  of  the  poet,  he  did 
more  than  any  other  friend  to  keep  alive  in  his 
heart  the  steadfast  flame  of  faith  in  his  poetic 
destiny;  Judge  Bryan's  name  must  always  be  in- 
separably connected  with  Henry  Timrod's  in  the 
literary  annals  of  South  Carolina. 

January,  1899. 


POEMS 


SPRING 

SPRING,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there  's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  Winter  in  the  land, 
Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn  ; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 
That  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 
The  brown  of  Autumn  corn. 


4  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 
Appear  some  azure  gems, 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 
The  crocus  breaking  earth  j 

And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green, 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still  there  's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 


SPRING  5 

Some  wondrous  pageant;   and  you   scarce  would 

start, 

If  from  a  beech's  heart, 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 
"  Behold  me  !  I  am  May !  " 

Ah  !  who  would  couple  thoughts  of  war  and  crime 
With  such  a  blessed  time ! 
Who  in  the  west  wind's  aromatic  breath 
Could  hear  the  call  of  Death  ! 

Yet  not  more  surely  shall  the  Spring  awake 
The  voice  of  wood  and  brake, 
Than  she  shall  rouse,  for  all  her  tranquil  charms, 
A  million  men  to  arms. 

There  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 
Than  all  her  sunlit  rains, 
And  every  gladdening  influence  around, 
Can  summon  from  the  ground. 

Oh  !  standing  on  this  desecrated  mould, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring  kneeling  on  the  sod, 

And  calling,  with  the  voice  of  all  her  rills, 
Upon  the  ancient  hills 

To  fall  and  crush  the  tyrants  and  the  slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves. 


POEMS    OF   HENRY    TIMROD 


THE   COTTON   BOLL 

WHILE  I  recline 

At  ease  beneath 

This  immemorial  pine, 

Small  sphere ! 

(By  dusky  fingers  brought  this  morning  here 

And  shown  with  boastful  smiles), 

I  turn  thy  cloven  sheath, 

Through  which  the  soft  white  fibres  peer, 

That,  with  their  gossamer  bands, 

Unite,  like  love,  the  sea-divided  lands, 

And  slowly,  thread  by  thread, 

Draw  forth  the  folded  strands, 

Than  which  the  trembling  line, 

By  whose  frail  help  yon  startled  spider  fled 

Down  the  tall  spear-grass  from  his  swinging  bed, 

Is  scarce  more  fine  ; 

And  as  the  tangled  skein 

Unravels  in  my  hands, 

Betwixt  me  and  the  noonday  light, 

A  veil  seems  lifted,  and  for  miles  and  miles 

The  landscape  broadens  on  my  sight, 

As,  in  the  little  boll,  there  lurked  a  spell 

Like  that  which,  in  the  ocean  shell, 

With  mystic  sound, 

Breaks  down  the  narrow  walls  that  hem  us  round, 

And  turns  some  city  lane 


THE    COTTON    BOLL 

Into  the  restless  main, 
With  all  his  capes  and  isles  ! 

Yonder  bird, 

Which  floats,  as  if  at  rest, 

In  those  blue  tracts  above  the  thunder,  where 

No  vapors  cloud  the  stainless  air, 

And  never  sound  is  heard, 

Unless  at  such  rare  time 

When,  from  the  City  of  the  Blest, 

Rings  down  some  golden  chime, 

Sees  not  from  his  high  place 

So  vast  a  cirque  of  summer  space 

As  widens  round  me  in  one  mighty  field, 

Which,  rimmed  by  seas  and  sands, 

Doth  hail  its  earliest  daylight  in  the  beams 

Of  gray  Atlantic  dawns  ; 

And,  broad  as  realms  made  up  of  many  lands, 

Is  lost  afar 

Behind  the  crimson  hills  and  purple  lawns 

Of  sunset,  among  plains  which  roll  their  streams 

Against  the  Evening  Star  ! 

And'lo! 

To  the  remotest  point  of  sight, 

Although  I  gaze  upon  no  waste  of  snow, 

The  endless  field  is  white ; 

And  the  whole  landscape  glows, 

For  many  a  shining  league  away, 

With  such  accumulated  light 

4 


8  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

As  Polar  lands  would  flash  beneath  a  tropic  day ! 

Nor  lack  there  (for  the  vision  grows, 

And  the  small  charm  within  my  hands  — 

More  potent  even  than  the  fabled  one, 

Which  oped  whatever  golden  mystery 

Lay  hid  in  fairy  wood  or  magic  vale, 

The  curious  ointment  of  the  Arabian  tale  — 

Beyond  all  mortal  sense 

Doth  stretch  my  sight's  horizon,  and  I  see, 

Beneath  its  simple  influence, 

As  if  with  Uriel's  crown, 

I  stood  in  some  great  temple  of  the  Sun, 

And  looked,  as  Uriel,  down  !) 

Nor  lack  there  pastures  rich  and  fields  all  green 

With  all  the  common  gifts  of  God, 

For  temperate  airs  and  torrid  sheen 

Weave  Edens  of  the  sod ; 

Through  lands  which  look  one  sea  of  billowy  gold 

Broad  rivers  wind  their  devious  ways ; 

A  hundred  isles  in  their  embraces  fold 

A  hundred  luminous  bays  ; 

And  through  yon  purple  haze 

Vast  mountains  lift  their  plumed  peaks  cloud- 
crowned  ; 

And,  save  where  up  their  sides  the  ploughman 
creeps, 

An  unhewn  forest  girds  them  grandly  round, 

In  whose  dark  shades  a  future  navy  sleeps ! 

Ye  Stars,  which,  though  unseen,  yet  with  me  gaze 


THE   COTTON    BOLL 

Upon  this  loveliest  fragment  of  the  earth ! 
Thou  Sun,  that  kindlest  all  thy  gentlest  rays 
Above  it,  as  to  light  a  favorite  hearth ! 
Ye  Clouds,  that  in  your  temples  in  the  West 
See  nothing  brighter  than  its  humblest  flowers ! 
And  you,  ye  Winds,  that  on  the  ocean's  breast 
Are  kissed  to  coolness  ere  ye  reach  its  bowers ! 
Bear  witness  with  me  in  my  song  of  praise, 
And  tell  the  world  that,  since  the  world  began, 
No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays, 
Or  given  a  home  to  man  ! 

But  these  are  charms  already  widely  blown ! 

His  be  the  meed  whose  pencil's  trace 

Hath  touched  our  very  swamps  with  grace, 

And  round  whose  tuneful  way 

All  Southern  laurels  bloom ; 

The  Poet  of  "  The  Woodlands,"  unto  whom 

Alike  are  known 

The  flute's  low  breathing  and  the  trumpet's  tone, 

And  the  soft  west  wind's  sighs ; 

But  who  shall  utter  all  the  debt, 

O  Land  wherein  all  powers  are  met 

That  bind  a  people's  heart, 

The  world  doth  owe  thee  at  this  day, 

And  which  it  never  can  repay, 

Yet  scarcely  deigns  to  own  ! 

Where  sleeps  the  poet  who  shall  fitly  sing 

The  source  wherefrom  doth  spring 


io      POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

That  mighty  commerce  which,  confined 

To  the  mean  channels  of  no  selfish  mart, 

Goes  out  to  every  shore 

Of  this  broad  earth,  and  throngs  the  sea  with  ships 

That  bear  no  thunders ;  hushes  hungry  lips 

In  alien  lands ; 

Joins  with  a  delicate  web  remotest  strands ; 

And  gladdening  rich  and  poor, 

Doth  gild  Parisian  domes, 

Or  feed  the  cottage-smoke  of  English  homes, 

And  only  bounds  its  blessings  by  mankind ! 

In  offices  like  these,  thy  mission  lies, 

My  Country !  and  it  shall  not  end 

As  long  as  rain  shall  fall  and  Heaven  bend 

In  blue  above  thee ;  though  thy  foes  be  hard 

And  cruel  as  their  weapons,  it  shall  guard 

Thy  hearth-stones  as  a  bulwark  ;  make  thee  great 

In  white  and  bloodless  state ; 

And  haply,  as  the  years  increase  — 

Still  working  through  its  humbler  reach 

With  that  large  wisdom  which  the  ages  teach  — 

Revive  the  half-dead  dream  of  universal  peace ! 

As  men  who  labor  in  that  mine 

Of  Cornwall,  hollowed  out  beneath  the  bed 

Of  ocean,  when  a  storm  rolls  overhead, 

Hear  the  dull  booming  of  the  world  of  brine 

Above  them,  and  a  mighty  mufHed  roar 

Of  winds  and  waters,  yet  toil  calmly  on, 

And  split  the  rock,  and  pile  the  massive  ore, 

Or  carve  a  niche,  or  shape  the  arched  roof ; 


THE   COTTON   BOLL  II 

So  I,  as  calmly,  weave  my  woof 

Of  song,  chanting  the  days  to  come, 

Unsilenced,  though  the  quiet  summer  air 

Stirs  with  the  bruit  of  battles,  and  each  dawn 

Wakes  from  its  starry  silence  to  the  hum 

Of  many  gathering  armies.     Still, 

In  that  we  sometimes  hear, 

Upon  the  Northern  winds,  the  voice  of  woe 

Not  wholly  drowned  in  triumph,  though  I  know 

The  end  must  crown  us,  and  a  few  brief  years 

Dry  all  our  tears, 

I  may  not  sing  too  gladly.     To  Thy  will 

Resigned,  O  Lord  !  we  cannot  all  forget 

That  there  is  much  even  Victory  must  regret. 

And,  therefore,  not  too  long 

From  the  great  burthen  of  our  country's  wrong 

Delay  our  just  release  ! 

And,  if  it  may  be,  save 

These  sacred  fields  of  peace 

From  stain  of  patriot  or  of  hostile  blood  ! 

Oh,  help  us,  Lord !  to  roll  the  crimson  flood 

Back  on  its  course,  and,  while  our  banners  wing 

Northward,  strike  with  us !  till  the  Goth  shall  cling 

To  his  own  blasted  altar-stones,  and  crave 

Mercy ;  and  we  shall  grant  it,  and  dictate 

The  lenient  future  of  his  fate 

There,  where  some  rotting   ships  and  crumbling 

quays 

Shall  one  day  mark  the  Port  which  ruled  the  West- 
ern seas. 


12  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 


PRECEPTOR   AMAT 

IT  is  time  (it  was  time  long  ago)  I  should  sever 
This  chain  —  why  I  wear  it  I  know  not  —  forever  ! 
Yet  I  cling  to  the  bond,  e'en  while  sick  of  the  mask 
I  must  wear,  as  of  one  whom  his  commonplace  task 
And  proof-armor  of  dullness  have  steeled  to  her 

charms  ! 
Ah !  how  lovely  she  looked  as  she  flung  from  her 

arms, 

In  heaps  to  this  table  (now  starred  with  the  stains 
Of  her  booty  yet  wet  with  those  yesterday  rains), 
These  roses  and  lilies,  and  —  what  ?  let  me  see  ! 
Then  was  off  in  a  moment,  but  turned  with  a  glee, 
That  lit  her  sweet  face  as  with  moonlight,  to  say, 
As  't  was  almost  too  late  for  a  lesson  to-day, 
She  meant  to  usurp,  for  this  morning  at  least, 
My  office  of  Tutor ;  and  instead  of  a  feast 
Of  such  mouthfuls  as  poluphloisboio  thalasses, 
With  which  I  fed  her,  I  should  study  the  grasses 
(Love-grasses  she  called  them),  the  buds,  and  the 

flowers 

Of  which  I  know  nothing ;  and  if  "  with  my  powers," 
I  did  not  learn  all  she  could  teach  in  that  time, 
And  thank  her,  perhaps,  in  a  sweet  English  rhyme, 
If  I  did  not  do  this,  and  she  flung  back  her  hair, 
And  shook  her  bright  head  with  a  menacing  air, 
She  'd  be  —  oh  !  she  'd  be  —  a  real  Saracen  Omar 


PRECEPTOR   AMAT  13 

To  a  certain  much-valued  edition  of  Homer ! 

But  these  flowers !  I  believe  I  could  number  as 

soon 

The  shadowy  thoughts  of  a  last  summer's  noon, 
Or  recall  with  their  phases,  each  one  after  one, 
The  clouds  that  came  down  to  the  death  of  the 

Sun, 

Cirrus,  Stratus,  or  Nimbus,  some  evening  last  year, 
As  unravel  the  web  of  one  genus !     Why,  there, 
As  they  lie  by  my  desk  in  that  glistering  heap, 
All  tangled  together  like  dreams  in  the  sleep 
Of  a  bliss-fevered  heart,  I  might  turn  them  and 

turn 

Till  night,  in  a  puzzle  of  pleasure,  and  learn 
Not  a  fact,  not  a  secret  I  prize  half  so  much, 
As,  how  rough  is  this  leaf  when  I  think  of  her 

touch. 
There  's  one  now  blown  yonder  !  what  can  be  its 

name  ? 

A  topaz  wine-colored,  the  wine  in  a  flame ; 
And  another  that 's  hued  like  the  pulp  of  a  melon, 
But  sprinkled  all  o'er  as  with  seed-pearls  of  Ceylon  ; 
And  a  third !  its  white  petals  just  clouded  with 

pink  ! 
And  a  fourth,  that  blue  star !  and  then  this,  too  ! 

I  think 

If  one  brought  me  this  moment  an  amethyst  cup, 
From  which,  through  a  liquor  of  amber,  looked  up, 
With  a  glow  as  of  eyes  in  their  elfin-like  lustre, 


14     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

Stones  culled  from  all  lands  in  a  sunshiny  cluster, 
From  the  ruby  that  burns  in  the  sands  of  Mysore 
To  the  beryl  of  Daunia,  with  gems  from  the  core 
Of  the  mountains  of  Persia  (I  talk  like  a  boy 
In  the  flush  of  some  new,  and  yet  half-tasted  joy) ; 
But  I  think  if  that  cup  and  its  jewels  together 
Were  placed  by  the  side  of  this  child  of  the  weather 
(This  one  which  she  touched  with  her  mouth,  and 

let  slip 

From  her  fingers  by  chance,  as  her  exquisite  lip, 
With  a  music  befitting  the  language  divine, 
Gave  the  roll  of  the  Greek's  multitudinous  line), 
I  should  take  —  not  the  gems  —  but  enough  !  let 

me  shut 

In  the  blossom  that  woke  it,  my  folly,  and  put 
Both  away  in  my  bosom  —  there,  in  a  heart-niche, 
One   shall   outlive   the   other  —  is 't   hard   to  tell 

which  ? 

In  the  name  of  all  starry  and  beautiful  things, 
What  is  it  ?  the  cross  in  the  centre,  these  rings, 
And  the  petals  that  shoot  in  an  intricate  maze, 
From  the  disk  which  is  lilac  —  or  purple  ?  like  rays 
In  a  blue  Aureole  ! 

And  so  now  will  she  wot, 

When  I  sit  by  her  side  with  my  brows  in  a  knot, 
And  praise  her  so  calmly,  or  chide  her  perhaps, 
If  her  voice  falter  once  in  its  musical  lapse, 
As  I  've  done,  I  confess,  just  to  gaze  at  a  flush 


PRECEPTOR  AMAT  15 

In  the  white  of  her  throat,  or  to  watch  the  quick 

rush 
Of  the  tear  she  sheds  smiling,   as,  drooping  her 

curls 
O'er  that  book  I  keep  shrined  like  a  casket  of 

pearls, 

She  reads  on  in  low  tones  of  such  tremulous  sweet- 
ness, 

That  (in  spite  of  some  faults)  I  am  forced,  in  dis- 
creetness, 

To  silence,  lest  mine,  growing  hoarse,  should  betray 
What  I  must  not  reveal  —  will  she  guess  now,  I 

say, 
How,  for  all  his  grave  looks,  the  stern,  passionless 

Tutor, 

With  more  than  the  love  of  her  youthfulest  suitor, 
Is  hiding  somewhere  in  the  shroud  of  his  vest, 
By  a  heart  that  is  beating  wild  wings  in  its  nest, 
This  flower,  thrown  aside  in  the  sport  of  a  minute, 
And  which  he  holds  dear  as  though  folded  within  it 
Lay  the  germ  of  the  bliss  that  he  dreams  of !     Ah, 

me! 

It  is  hard  to  love  thus,  yet  to  seem  and  to  be 
A  thing  for  indifference,  faint  praise,  or  cold  blame, 
When  you  long  (by  the  right  of  deep  passion,  the 

claim, 

On  the  loved  of  the  loving,  at  least  to  be  heard) 
To  take  the  white  hand,  and  with  glance,  touch, 
and  word, 


16  POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 

Burn  your  way  to  the  heart !     That  her  step  on  the 

stair  ? 
Be  still  thou  fond  flutterer ! 

How  little  I  care 

For  your  favorites,  see  !  they  are  all  of  them,  look  ! 
On  the  spot  where  they  fell,  and  —  but  here  is  your 
book  ! 


THE   PROBLEM 

NOT  to  win  thy  favor,  maiden,  not  to  steal  away  thy 

heart, 
Have  I  ever  sought  thy  presence,  ever  stooped  to 

any  art ; 
Thou  wast  but  a  wildering  problem,  which  I  aimed 

to  solve,  and  then 
Make  it  matter  for  my  note-book,  or  a  picture  for 

my  pen. 

So,  I  daily  conned  thee  over,  thinking  it  no  danger- 
ous task, 
Peeping  underneath  thy  lashes,  peering  underneath 

thy  mask  — 
For  thou  wear'st  one  —  no  denial !  there  is  much 

within  thine  eyes ; 
But  those  stars  have  other  secrets  than  are  patent 

in  their  skies. 
And  I  read  thee,  read  thee  closely,  every  grace  and 

every  sin, 


THE    PROBLEM  17 

Looked  behind  the  outward  seeming  to  the  strange 

wild  world  within, 
Where  thy  future  self  is  forming,  where  I  saw  — 

no  matter  what ! 
There  was  something   less  than  angel,  there  was 

many  an  earthly  spot ; 
Yet  so  beautiful  thy  errors  that  I  had  no  heart  for 

blame, 
And  thy  virtues  made  thee  dearer  than  my  dearest 

hopes  of  fame ; 
All  so  blended,  that  in  wishing  one  peculiar  trait 

removed, 
We  indeed  might  make  thee  better,  but  less  lovely 

and  less  loved. 
All  my  mind  was  in  the  study  —  so  two  thrilling 

fortnights  passed  — 
All  my  mind  was  in  the  study  —  till  my  heart  was 

touched  at  last. 

Well !  and  then  the  book  was  finished,  the*  absorb- 
ing task  was  done, 

I  awoke  as  one  who  had  been  dreaming  in  a  noon- 
day sun  ; 
With  a  fever  on  my  forehead,  and  a  throbbing  in 

my  brain, 
In  my  soul  delirious  wishes,  in  my  heart  a  lasting 

pain; 
Yet  so  hopeless,  yet  so  cureless  —  as  in  every  great 

despair  — 
I  was  very  calm  and  silent,  and  I  never  stooped  to 

prayer, 


18  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Like  a  sick  man  unattended,  reckless  of  the  coming 

death, 

Only  for  he  knows  it  certain,  and  he  feels  no  sis- 
ter's breath. 

All  the  while  as  by  an  Atd,  with  no  pity  in  her  face, 
Yet  with  eyes  of  witching  beauty,  and  with  form  of 

matchless  grace, 
I   was   haunted   by  thy  presence,  oh!   for   weary 

nights  and  days, 
I  was  haunted  by  thy  spirit,  I  was  troubled  by  thy 

gaze, 
And  the  question  which  to  answer  I  had  taxed  a 

subtle  brain, 
What  thou  art,  and  what  thou  wilt  be,  came  again 

and  yet  again ; 

With  its  opposite  deductions,  it  recurred  a  thou- 
sand times, 
Like  a  coward's  apprehensions,  like  a  madman's 

favorite  rhymes. 
But  to-night  my  thoughts  flow  calmer  —  in  thy  room 

I  think  I  stand, 
See  a  fair  white  page  before  thee,  and  a  pen  within 

thy  hand ; 
And  thy  fingers  sweep  the  paper,  and  a  light  is  in 

thine  eyes, 
Whilst  I  read  thy  secret  fancies,  whilst  I  hear  thy 

secret  sighs. 
What  they  are  I  will  not  whisper,  those  are  lovely, 

these  are  deep, 


THE   PROBLEM  19 

But  one  name  is  left  unwritten,  that  is  only  breathed 

in  sleep. 
Is  it  wonder  that  my  passion  bursts  at  once  from 

out  its  nest  ? 
I  have  bent  my  knee  before  thee,  and  my  love  is  all 

confessed  ; 
Though  I  knew  that  name  unwritten  was  another 

name  than  mine, 
Though  I  felt  those  sighs  half  murmured  what  I 

could  but  half  divine. 
Aye  !  I  hear  thy  haughty  answer  !     Aye  !  I  see  thy 

proud  lip  curl ! 
"What  presumption,  and  what  folly  !  "  why,  I  only 

love  a  girl 
With  some  very  winning  graces,  with  some  very 

noble  traits, 
But  no  better  than  a  thousand  who  have  bent  to 

humbler  fates. 
That  I  ask  not;  I  have,  maiden,  just  as  haught  a 

soul  as  thine ; 
If  thou   think'st   thy  place  above  me,  thou  shalt 

never  stoop  to  mine. 
Yet  as  long  as  blood  runs  redly,  yet  as  long  as 

mental  worth 
Is  a  nobler  gift  than  fortune,  is  a  holier  thing  than 

birth, 
I  will  claim  the  right  to  utter,  to  the  high  and  to 

the  low, 
That  I  love  them,  or  I   hate   them,  that  I  am  a 

friend  or  foe. 


20     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

Nor  shall  any  slight  unman  me  ;  I  have  yet  some 

little  strength, 
Yet  my  song  shall  sound  as  sweetly,  yet  a  power  be 

mine  at  length ! 
Then,  oh,  then  !    but  moans  are  idle  —  hear  me, 

pitying  saints  above  ! 

With  a  chaplet  on  my  forehead,  I  will  justify  my  love. 
And  perhaps  when  thou  art  leaning  on  some  less 

devoted  breast, 
Thou  shalt  murmur,  "  He  was  worthier  than  my 

blinded  spirit  guessed." 


A   YEAR'S   COURTSHIP 

I  SAW  her,  Harry,  first,  in  March  — 
You  know  the  street  that  leadeth  down 

Bv  the  old  bridge's  crumbling  arch  ?  — 
Just  where  it  leaves  the  dusty  town 

A  lonely  house  stands  grim  and  dark  — 
You  've  seen  it  ?  then  I  need  not  say 

How  quaint  the  place  is  —  did  you  mark 
An  ivied  window  ?  Well !  one  day, 

I,  chasing  some  forgotten  dream, 

And  in  a  poet's  idlest  mood, 
Caught,  as  I  passed,  a  white  hand's  gleam 

A  shutter  opened  —  there  she  stood 


A   YEAR'S    COURTSHIP  21 

Training  the  ivy  to  its  prop. 

Two  dark  eyes  and  a  brow  of  snow 
Flashed  down  upon  me  —  did  I  stop  ?  — 

She  says  I  did  —  I  do  not  know. 

But  all  that  day  did  something  glow 

Just  where  the  heart  beats  ;  frail  and  slight, 

A  germ  had  slipped  its  shell,  and  now 
Was  pushing  softly  for  the  light. 

And  April  saw  me  at  her  feet, 

Dear  month  of  sunshine  and  of  rain ! 

My  very  fears  were  sometimes  sweet, 
And  hope  was  often  touched  with  pain. 

For  she  was  frank,  and  she  was  coy, 

A  willful  April  in  her  ways  ; 
And  in  a  dream  of  doubtful  joy 

I  passed  some  truly  April  days. 

May  came,  and  on  that  arch,  sweet  mouth, 

The  smile  was  graver  in  its  play, 
And,  softening  with  the  softening  South, 

My  April  melted  into  May. 

She  loved  me,  yet  my  heart  would  doubt, 
And  ere  I  spoke  the  month  was  June  — 

One  warm  still  night  we  wandered  out 
To  watch  a  slowly  setting  moon. 


22  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Something  which  I  saw  not  —  my  eyes 
Were  not  on  heaven  —  a  star,  perchance, 

Or  some  bright  drapery  of  the  skies, 
Had  caught  her  earnest,  upper  glance. 

And  as  she  paused  —  Hal !  we  have  played 

Upon  the  very  spot  —  a  fir 
Just  touched  me  with  its  dreamy  shade, 

But  the  full  moonlight  fell  on  her  — 

And  as  she  paused  —  I  know  not  why  — 
I  longed  to  speak,  yet  could  not  speak ; 

The  bashful  are  the  boldest  —  I  — 
I  stooped  and  gently  kissed  her  cheek. 

A  murmur  (else  some  fragrant  air 

Stirred  softly)  and  the  faintest  start  — 

O  Hal !  we  were  the  happiest  pair ! 
O  Hal !  I  clasped  her  heart  to  heart ! 

And  kissed  away  some  tears  that  gushed ; 

But  how  she  trembled,  timid  dove, 
When  my  soul  broke  its  silence,  flushed 

With  a  whole  burning  June  of  love. 

Since  then  a  happy  year  hath  sped 

Through  months  that  seemed  all  June  and  May, 
And  soon  a  March  sun,  overhead, 

Will  usher  in  the  crowning  day. 


SERENADE  23 

Twelve  blessed  moons  that  seemed  to  glow 
All  summer,  Hal !  —  my  peerless  Kate  ! 

She  is  the  dearest  —  "  Angel  ? "  —  no  ! 
Thank  God  !  —  but  you  shall  see  her — wait. 

So  all  is  told  !  I  count  on  thee 

To  see  the  Priest,  Hal !     Pass  the  wine ! 

Here  's  to  my  darling  wife  to  be  ! 
And  here  Js  to  —  when  thou  find'st  her  —  thine  ! 


SERENADE 

HIDE,  happy  damask,  from  the  stars, 

What  sleep  enfolds  behind  your  veil, 
But  open  to  the  fairy  cars 

On  which  the  dreams  of  midnight  sail ; 
And  let  the  zephyrs  rise  and  fall 

About  her  in  the  curtained  gloom, 
And  then  return  to  tell  me  all 

The  silken  secrets  of  the  room. 

Ah,  dearest !  may  the  elves  that  sway 

Thy  fancies  come  from  emerald  plots, 
Where  they  have  dozed  and  dreamed  all  day 

In  hearts  of  blue  forget-me-nots. 
And  one  perhaps  shall  whisper  thus  : 

Awake  !  and  light  the  darkness,  Sweet ! 
While  thou  art  reveling  with  us, 

He  watches  in  the  lonely  street. 


54  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 


YOUTH   AND   MANHOOD 

ANOTHER  year  !  a  short  one,  if  it  flow 

Like  that  just  past, 
And  I  shall  stand  —  if  years  can  make  me  so  — 

A  man  at  last. 

Yet,  while  the  hours  permit  me,  I  would  pause 

And  contemplate 
The  lot  whereto  unalterable  laws 

Have  bound  my  fate. 

Yet,  from  the  starry  regions  of  my  youth, 

The  empyreal  height 
Where  dreams  are  happiness,  and  feeling  truth, 

And  life  delight  — 

From  that  ethereal  and  serene  abode 

My  soul  would  gaze 
Downward  upon  the  wide  and  winding  road, 

Where  manhood  plays ; 

Plays  with  the  baubles  and  the  gauds  of  earth  — 

Wealth,  power,  and  fame  — 
Nor  knows  that  in  the  twelvemonth  after  birth 

He  did  the  same. 

Where  the  descent  begins,  through  long  defiles 
I  see  them  wind  ; 


YOUTH  AND    MANHOOD  25 

And  some  are  looking  down  with  hopeful  smiles, 
And  some  are  —  blind. 


And  farther  on  a  gay  and  glorious  green 

Dazzles  the  sight, 
While  noble  forms  are  moving  o'er  the  scene, 

Like  things  of  light. 

Towers,  temples,  domes  of  perfect  symmetry 

Rise  broad  and  high, 
With  pinnacles  among  the  clouds ;  ah,  me ! 

None  touch  the  sky. 

None  pierce  the  pure  and  lofty  atmosphere 

Which  I  breathe  now, 
And  the  strong  spirits  that  inhabit  there, 

Live  —  God  sees  how. 

Sick  of  the  very  treasure  which  they  heap ; 

Their  tearless  eyes 
Sealed  ever  in  a  heaven-forgetting  sleep, 

Whose  dreams  are  lies ; 

And  so,  a  motley,  unattractive  throng, 

They  toil  and  plod, 
Dead  to  the  holy  ecstasies  of  song, 

To  love,  and  God. 

Dear  God  !  if  that  I  may  not  keep  through  life 
My  trust,  my  truth, 


26  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

And  that  I  must,  in  yonder  endless  strife, 
Lose  faith  with  youth ; 

If  the  same  toil  which  indurates  the  hand 

Must  steel  the  heart, 
Till,  in  the  wonders  of  the  ideal  land, 

It  have  no  part ; 

Oh !  take  me  hence  !  I  would  no  longer  stay 

Beneath  the  sky  j 
Give  me  to  chant  one  pure  and  deathless  lay, 

And  let  me  die  ! 


HARK  TO   THE   SHOUTING   WIND 

HARK  to  the  shouting  Wind ! 

Hark  to  the  flying  Rain  ! 
And  I  care  not  though  I  never  see 

A  bright  blue  sky  again. 

There  are  thoughts  in  my  breast  to-day 
That  are  not  for  human  speech ; 

But  I  hear  them  in  the  driving  storm, 
And  the  roar  upon  the  beach. 

And  oh,  to  be  with  that  ship 

That  I  watch  through  the  blinding  brine ! 
O  Wind !  for  thy  sweep  of  land  and  sea ! 

O  Sea !  for  a  voice  like  thine  ! 


TOO    LONG,   O   SPIRIT   OF   STORM       27 

Shout  on,  thou  pitiless  Wind, 
To  the  frightened  and  flying  Rain ! 

I  care  not  though  I  never  see 
A  calm  blue  sky  again. 


TOO   LONG,   O   SPIRIT  OF   STORM 

Too  long,  O  Spirit  of  Storm, 

Thy  lightning  sleeps  in  its  sheath  ! 

I  am  sick  to  the  soul  of  yon  pallid  sky, 
And  the  moveless  sea  beneath. 

Come  down  in  thy  strength  on  the  deep ! 

Worse  dangers  there  are  in  life, 
When  the  waves  are  still,  and  the  skies  look  fair, 

Than  in  their  wildest  strife. 

A  friend  I  knew,  whose  days 

Were  as  calm  as  this  sky  overhead ; 

But  one  blue  morn  that  was  fairest  of  all, 
The  heart  in  his  bosom  fell  dead. 

And  they  thought  him  alive  while  he  walked 
The  streets  that  he  walked  in  youth  — 

Ah !  little  they  guessed  the  seeming  man 
Was  a  soulless  corpse  in  sooth. 

Come  down  in  thy  strength,  O  Storm  ! 
And  lash  the  deep  till  it  raves ! 


28  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

I  am  sick  to  the  soul  of  that  quiet  sea, 
Which  hides  ten  thousand  graves. 


THE  LILY   CONFIDANTE 

LILY  !  lady  of  the  garden  ! 

Let  me  press  my  lip  to  thine ! 
Love  must  tell  its  story,  Lily ! 

Listen  thou  to  mine. 

Two  I  choose  to  know  the  secret  — 
Thee,  and  yonder  wordless  flute ; 

Dragons  watch  me,  tender  Lily, 
And  thou  must  be  mute. 

There  's  a  maiden,  and  her  name  is  . 

Hist !  was  that  a  rose-leaf  fell  ? 
See,  the  rose  is  listening,  Lily, 

And  the  rose  may  tell. 

Lily-browed  and  lily-hearted, 

She  is  very  dear  to  me ; 
Lovely?  yes,  if  being  lovely 

Is  —  resembling  thee. 

Six  to  half  a  score  of  summers 

Make  the  sweetest  of  the  "teens"' 

Not  too  young  to  guess,  dear  Lily, 
What  a  lover  means. 


THE    LILY    CONFIDANTE  29 

Laughing  girl,  and  thoughtful  woman, 

I  am  puzzled  how  to  woo  — 
Shall  I  praise,  or  pique  her,  Lily  ? 

Tell  me  what  to  do. 

"  Silly  lover,  if  thy  Lily 

Like  her  sister  lilies  be, 
Thou  must  woo,  if  thou  wouldst  wear  her, 
With  a  simple  plea. 

"  Love 's  the  lover's  only  magic, 
Truth  the  very  subtlest  art  j 
Love  that  feigns,  and  lips  that  flatter, 
Win  no  modest  heart. 

"  Like  the  dewdrop  in  my  bosom, 

Be  thy  guileless  language,  youth ; 
Falsehood  buyeth  falsehood  only, 
Truth  must  purchase  truth. 

"  As  thou  talkest  at  the  fireside, 

With  the  little  children  by  — 
As  thou  prayest  in  the  darkness, 
When  thy  God  is  nigh— 

"  With  a  speech  as  chaste  and  gentle, 

And  such  meanings  as  become 
Ear  of  child,  or  ear  of  angel, 
Speak,  or  be  thou  dumb. 


30  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

"  Woo  her  thus,  and  she  shall  give  thee 

Of  her  heart  the  sinless  whole, 
All  the  girl  within  her  bosom, 
And  her  woman's  soul." 


THE    STREAM    IS    FLOWING   FROM   THE 
WEST 

THE  stream  is  flowing  from  the  west ; 

As  if  it  poured  from  yonder  skies, 
It  wears  upon  its  rippling  breast 

The  sunset's  golden  dyes ; 
And  bearing  onward  to  the  sea, 
'T  will  clasp  the  isle  that  holdeth  thee. 

I  dip  my  hand  within  the  wave ; 

Ah !  how  impressionless  and  cold  ! 
I  touch  it  with  my  lip,  and  lave 

My  forehead  in  the  gold. 
It  is  a  trivial  thought,  but  sweet, 
Perhaps  the  wave  will  kiss  thy  feet. 

Alas  !  I  leave  no  trace  behind  — 
As  little  on  the  senseless  stream 

As  on  thy  heart,  or  on  thy  mind ; 
Which  was  the  simpler  dream, 

To  win  that  warm,  wild  love  of  thine, 

Or  make  the  water  whisper  mine  ? 


VOX   ET   PR^TEREA   NIHIL  31 

Dear  stream  !  some  moons  must  wax  and  wane 

Ere  I  again  shall  cross  thy  tide, 
And  then,  perhaps,  a  viewless  chain 

Will  drag  me  to  her  side, 
To  love  with  all  my  spirit's  scope, 
To  wish,  do  everything  but  —  hope. 


VOX   ET   PRJETEREA   NIHIL 

I  'VE  been  haunted  all  night,  I  've  been  haunted  all 

day, 

By  the  ghost  of  a  song,  by  the  shade  of  a  lay, 
That  with   meaningless   words  and   profusion   of 

rhyme, 

To  a  dreamy  and  musical  rhythm  keeps  time. 
A  simple,  but  still  a  most  magical  strain, 
Its  dim  monotones  have  bewildered  my  brain 
With  a  specious  and  cunning  appearance  of  thought, 
I  seem  to  be  catching  but  never  have  caught. 

I  know  it  embodies  some  very  sweet  things, 
And  can  almost  divine  the  low  burden  it  sings ; 
But  again,  and  again,  and  still  ever  again, 
It  has  died  on  my  ear  at  the  touch  of  my  pen. 
And  so  it  keeps  courting  and  shunning  my  quest, 
As  a  bird  that  has  just  been  aroused  from  her  nest, 
Too  fond  to  depart,  and  too  frightened  to  stay, 
Now  circles  about  you,  now  flutters  away. 


32     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

Oh !  give  me  fit  words  for  that  exquisite  song, 
And  thou  couldst  not,  proud  beauty  !  be  obdurate 

long; 

It  would  come  like  the  voice  of  a  saint  from  above, 
And  win  thee  to  kindness,  and  melt  thee  to  love. 
Not  gilded  with  fancy,  nor  frigid  with  art, 
But  simple  as  feeling,  and  warm  as  the  heart, 
It  would  murmur  my  name  with  so  charming  a  tone, 
As  would  almost  persuade  thee  to  wish  it  thine  own. 


MADELINE 

O  LADY  !  if,  until  this  hour, 

I  Ve  gazed  in  those  bewildering  eyes, 
Yet  never  owned  their  touching  power, 

But  when  thou  couldst  not  hear  my  sighs ; 
It  has  not  been  that  love  has  slept 

One  single  moment  in  my  soul, 
Or  that  on  lip  or  look  I  kept 

A  stern  and  stoical  control ; 
But  that  I  saw,  but  that  I  felt, 

In  every  tone  and  glance  of  thine, 
Whate'er  they  spoke,  where'er  they  dwelt, 

How  small,  how  poor  a  part  was  mine ; 
And  that  I  deeply,  dearly  knew, 

That. hidden,  hopeless  love  confessed, 
The  fatal  words  would  lose  me,  too, 

Even  the  weak  friendship  I  possessed. 


MADELINE  33 

And  so,  I  masked  my  secret  well ; 

The  very  love  within  my  breast 
Became  the  strange,  but  potent  spell 

By  which  I  forced  it  into  rest. 
Yet  there  were  times  —  I  scarce  know  how 

These  eager  lips  refrained  to  speak,  — 
Some  kindly  smile  would  light  thy  brow, 

And  I  grew  passionate  and  weak ; 
The  secret  sparkled  at  my  eyes, 
And  love  but  half  repressed  its  sighs,  — 
Then  had  I  gazed  an  instant  more, 

Or  dwelt  one  moment  on  that  brow, 
I  might  have  changed  the  smile  it  wore, 

To  what  perhaps  it  weareth  now, 
And  spite  of  all  I  feared  to  meet, 
Confessed  that  passion  at  thy  feet. 
To  save  my  heart,  to  spare  thine  own, 

There  was  one  remedy  alone. 
I  fled,  I  shunned  thy  very  touch,  — 
It  cost  me  much,  O  God  !  how  much ! 
But  if  some  burning  tears  were  shed, 

Lady  !  I  let  them  freely  flow ; 
At  least,  they  left  unbreathed,  unsaid, 

A  worse  and  wilder  woe. 

But  now,  —  now  that  we  part  indeed, 
And  that  I  may  not  think  as  then, 

That  as  I  wish,  or  as  I  need, 
I  may  return  again,  — 


34     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

Now  that  for  months,  perhaps  for  years — 

I  see  no  limit  in  my  fears  — 

My  home  shall  be  some  distant  spot, 

Where  thou  —  where  even  thy  name  is  not, 

And  since  I  shall  not  see  the  frown, 

Such  wild,  mad  language  must  bring  down, 

Could  I  —  albeit  I  may  not  sue 

In  hope  to  bend  thy  steadfast  will  — 
Could  I  have  breathed  this  word,  adieu, 

And  kept  my  secret  still  ? 

Doubtless  thou  know'st  the  Hebrew  story  — 

The  tale  's  with  me  a  favorite  one  — 
How  Raphael  left  the  Courts  of  Glory, 

And  walked  with  Judah's  honored  Son; 
And  how  the  twain  together  dwelt, 

And  how  they  talked  upon  the  road, 
How  often  too  they  must  have  knelt 

As  equals  to  the  same  kind  God ; 
And  still  the  mortal  never  guessed, 
How  much  and  deeply  he  was  blessed, 
Till  when  —  the  Angel's  mission  done  — 

The  spell  which  drew  him  earthwards,  riven 
The  lover  saved  —  the  maiden  won  — 

He  plumed  again  his  wings  for  Heaven ; 
O  Madeline  !  as  unaware 
Thou  hast  been  followed  everywhere, 

And  girt  and  guarded  by  a  love, 
As  warm,  as  tender  in  its  care, 


MADELINE  35 

As  pure,  ay,  powerful  in  prayer, 

As  any  saint  above  ! 
Like  the  bright  inmate  of  the  skies, 
It  only  looked  with  friendly  eyes, 
And  still  had  worn  the  illusive  guise, 

And  thus  at  least  been  half  concealed ; 
But  at  this  parting,  painful  hour, 
It  spreads  its  wings,  unfolds  its  power, 

And  stands,  like  Raphael,  revealed. 

More,  Lady !  I  would  wish  to  speak,  — 
But  it  were  vain,  and  words  are  weak, 
And  now  that  I  have  bared  my  breast, 
Perchance  thou  wilt  infer  the  rest. 
So,  so,  farewell !  I  need  not  say 

I  look,  I  ask  for  no  reply, 
The  cold  and  scarcely  pitying  "  nay  " 

I  read  in  that  unmelted  eye ; 
Yet  one  dear  favor,  let  me  pray  ! 

Days,  months,  however  slow  to  me, 
Must  drag  at  last  their  length  away, 

And  I  return  —  if  not  to  thee  — 
At  least  to  breathe  the  same  sweet  air 
That  wooes  thy  lips  and  waves  thy  hair. 
Oh,  then  !  —  these  daring  lines  forgot  — 
Look,  speak,  as  thou  hadst  read  them  not. 
So,  Lady,  may  I  still  retain 
A  right  I  would  not  lose  again, 
For  all  that  gold  or  guilt  can  buy, 
Or  all  that  Heaven  itself  deny, 


36  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

A  right  such  love  may  justly  claim, 
Of  seeing  thee  in  friendship's  name. 
Give  me  but  this,  and  still  at  whiles, 
A  portion  of  thy  faintest  smiles, 

It  were  enough  to  bless  ; 
I  may  not,  dare  not  ask  for  more 
Than  boon  so  rich,  and  yet  so  poor, 

But  I  should  die  with  less. 


A   DEDICATION 

TO    K.    S.    G. 

FAIR  Saxon,  in  my  lover's  creed, 

My  love  were  smaller  than  your  meed, 

And  you  might  justly  deem  it  slight, 

As  wanting  truth  as  well  as  sight, 

If,  in  that  image  which  is  shrined 

Where  thoughts  are  sacred,  you  could  find 

A  single  charm,  or  more  or  less, 

Than  you  to  all  kind  eyes  possess. 

To  me,  even  in  the  happiest  dreams, 

Where,  flushed  with  love's  just  dawning  gleams, 

My  hopes  their  radiant  wings  unfurl, 

You  're  but  a  simple  English  girl, 

No  fairer,  grace  for  grace  arrayed, 

Than  many  a  simple  Southern  maid ; 

With  faults  enough  to  make  the  good 

Seem  sweeter  far  than  else  it  would; 


A   DEDICATION  37 

Frank  in  your  anger  and  your  glee, 

And  true  as  English  natures  be, 

Yet  not  without  some  maiden  art 

Which  hides  a  loving  English  heart. 

Still  there  are  moments,  brief  and  bright, 

When  fancy,  by  a  poet's  light, 

Beholds  you  clothed  with  loftier  charms 

Than  love  e'er  gave  to  mortal  arms. 

A  spell  is  woven  on  the  air 

From  your  brown  eyes  and  golden  hair, 

And  all  at  once  you  seem  to  stand 

Before  me  as  your  native  land, 

With  all  her  greatness  in  your  guise, 

And  all  her  glory  in  your  eyes ; 

And  sometimes,  as  if  angels  sung, 

I  hear  her  poets  on  your  tongue. 

And,  therefore,  I,  who  from  a  boy 

Have  felt  an  almost  English  joy 

In  England's  undecaying  might, 

And  England's  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Next  to  my  own  young  country's  fame 

Holding  her  honor  and  her  name, 

I  —  who,  though  born  where  not  a  vale 

Hath  ever  nursed  a  nightingale, 

Have  fed  my  muse  with  English  song 

Until  her  feeble  wing  grew  strong  — 

Feel,  while  with  all  the  reverence  meet 

I  lay  this  volume  at  your  feet, 

As  if  through  your  dear  self  I  pay, 

For  many  a  deep  and  deathless  lay, 


38     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

For  noble  lessons  nobly  taught, 

For  tears,  for  laughter,  and  for  thought, 

A  portion  of  the  mighty  debt 

We  owe  to  Shakespeare's  England  yet ! 


KATIE 

IT  may  be  through  some  foreign  grace, 

And  unfamiliar  charm  of  face ; 

It  may  be  that  across  the  foam 

Which  bore  her  from  her  childhood's  home, 

By  some  strange  spell,  my  Katie  brought, 

Along  with  English  creeds  and  thought  — 

Entangled  in  her  golden  hair  — 

Some  English  sunshine,  warmth,  and  air ! 

I  cannot  tell  — but  here  to-day, 

A  thousand  billowy  leagues  away 

From  that  green  isle  whose  twilight  skies 

No  darker  are  than  Katie's  eyes, 

She  seems  to  me,  go  where  she  will, 

An  English  girl  in  England  still ! 

I  meet  her  on  the  dusty  street, 
And  daisies  spring  about  her  feet ; 
Or,  touched  to  life  beneath  her  tread, 
An  English  cowslip  lifts  its  head ; 
And,  as  to  do  her  grace,  rise  up 
The  primrose  and  the  buttercup ! 


KATIE  39 

I  roam  with  her  through  fields  of  cane, 

And  seem  to  stroll  an  English  lane, 

Which,  white  with  blossoms  of  the  May, 

Spreads  its  green  carpet  in  her  way ! 

As  fancy  wills,  the  path  beneath 

Is  golden  gorse,  or  purple  heath : 

And  now  we  hear  in  woodlands  dim 

Their  unarticulated  hymn, 

Now  walk  through  rippling  waves  of  wheat, 

Now  sink  in  mats  of  clover  sweet, 

Or  see  before  us  from  the  lawn 

The  lark  go  up  to  greet  the  dawn ! 

All  birds  that  love  the  English  sky 

Throng  round  my  path  when  she  is  by : 

The  blackbird  from  a  neighboring  thorn 

With  music  brims  the  cup  of  morn, 

And  in  a  thick,  melodious  rain 

The  mavis  pours  her  mellow  strain ! 

But  only  when  my  Katie's  voice 

Makes  all  the  listening  woods  rejoice 

I  hear  —  with  cheeks  that  flush  and  pale  — 

The  passion  of  the  nightingale  ! 

Anon  the  pictures  round  her  change, 
And  through  an  ancient  town  we  range, 
Whereto  the  shadowy  memory  clings 
Of  one  of  England's  Saxon  kings, 
And  which  to  shrine  his  fading  fame 
Still  keeps  his  ashes  and  his  name. 


40     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

Quaint  houses  rise  on  either  hand, 

But  still  the  airs  are  fresh  and  bland, 

As  if  their  gentle  wings  caressed 

Some  new-born  village  of  the  West. 

A  moment  by  the  Norman  tower 

We  pause ;  it  is  the  Sabbath  hour ! 

And  o'er  the  city  sinks  and  swells 

The  chime  of  old  St.  Mary's  bells,    ' 

Which  still  resound  in  Katie's  ears 

As  sweet  as  when  in  distant  years 

She  heard  them  peal  with  jocund  din 

A  merry  English  Christmas  in  ! 

We  pass  the  abbey's  ruined  arch, 

And  statelier  grows  my  Katie's  march, 

As  round  her,  wearied  with  the  taint 

Of  Transatlantic  pine  and  paint, 

She  sees  a  thousand  tokens  cast 

Of  England's  venerable  Past ! 

Our  reverent  footsteps  lastly  claims 

The  younger  chapel  of  St.  James, 

Which,  though,  as  English  records  run, 

Not  old,  had  seen  full  many  a  sun, 

Ere  to  the  cold  December  gale 

The  thoughtful  Pilgrim  spread  his  sail. 

There  Katie  in  her  childish  days 

Spelt  out  her  prayers  and  lisped  her  praise, 

And  doubtless,  as  her  beauty  grew, 

Did  much  as  other  maidens  do  — 

Across  the  pews  and  down  the  aisle 

Sent  many  a  beau-bewildering  smile, 


KATIE  41 

And  to  subserve  her  spirit's  need 

Learned  other  things  beside  the  creed ! 

There,  too,  to-day  her  knee  she  bows, 

And  by  her  one  whose  darker  brows 

Betray  the  Southern  heart  that  burns 

Beside  her,  and  which  only  turns 

Its  thoughts  to  Heaven  in  one  request, 

Not  all  unworthy  to  be  blest, 

But  rising  from  an  earthlier  pain 

Than  might  beseem  a  Christian  fane. 

Ah  !  can  the  guileless  maiden  share 

The  wish  that  lifts  that  passionate  prayer  ? 

Is  all  at  peace  that  breast  within  ? 

Good  angels  !  warn  her  of  the  sin  ! 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  ?  who  can  save 

A  willing  victim  of  the  wave  ? 

Who  cleanse  a  soul  that  loves  its  guilt  ? 

Or  gather  wine  when  wine  is  spilt  ? 

We  quit  the  holy  house  and  gain 
The  open  air ;  then,  happy  twain, 
Adown  familiar  streets  we  go, 
And  now  and  then  she  turns  to  show, 
With  fears  that  all  is  changing  fast, 
Some  spot  that 's  sacred  to  her  Past. 
Here  by  this  way,  through  shadows  cool, 
A  little  maid,  she  tripped  to  school ; 
And  there  each  morning  used  to  stop 
Before  a  wonder  of  a  shop 


42  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Where,  built  of  apples  and  of  pears, 
Rose  pyramids  of  golden  spheres  ; 
While,  dangling  in  her  dazzled  sight, 
Ripe  cherries  cast  a  crimson  light, 
And  made  her  think  of  elfin  lamps, 
And  feast  and  sport  in  fairy  camps, 
Whereat,  upon  her  royal  throne 
(Most  richly  carved  in  cherry-stone), 
Titania  ruled,  in  queenly  state, 
The  boisterous  revels  of  the  fete  ! 
JT  was  yonder,  with  their  "  horrid  "  noise, 
Dismissed  from  books,  she  met  the  boys, 
Who,  with  a  barbarous  scorn  of  girls, 
Glanced  slightly  at  her  sunny  curls, 
And  laughed  and  leaped  as  reckless  by 
As  though  no  pretty  face  were  nigh ! 
But  —  here  the  maiden  grows  demure  — 
Indeed  she  's  not  so  very  sure, 
That  in  a  year,  or  haply  twain, 
Who  looked  e'er  failed  to  look  again, 
And  sooth  to  say,  I  little  doubt 
(Some  azure  day,  the  truth  will  out !) 
That  certain  baits  in  certain  eyes 
Caught  many  an  unsuspecting  prize  ; 
And  somewhere  underneath  these  eaves 
A  budding  flirt  put  forth  its  leaves ! 

Has  not  the  sky  a  deeper  blue, 
Have  not  the  trees  a  greener  hue, 


KATIE  43 

And  bend  they  not  with  lordlier  grace 
And  nobler  shapes  above  the  place 
Where  on  one  cloudless  winter  morn 
My  Katie  to  this  life  was  born  ? 
Ah,  folly !  long  hath  fled  the  hour 
When  love  to  sight  gave  keener  power, 
And  lovers  looked  for  special  boons 
In  brighter  flowers  and  larger  moons. 
But  wave  the  foliage  as  it  may, 
And  let  the  sky  be  ashen  gray, 
Thus  much  at  least  a  manly  youth 
May  hold  —  and  yet  not  blush  —  as  truth  : 
If  near  that  blessed  spot  of  earth 
Which  saw  the  cherished  maiden's  birth 
No  softer  dews  than  usual  rise, 
And  life  there  keeps  its  wonted  guise, 
Yet  not  the  less  that  spot  may  seem 
As  lovely  as  a  poet's  dream  ; 
And  should  a  fervid  faith  incline 
To  make  thereof  a  sainted  shrine, 
Who  may  deny  that  round  us  throng 
A  hundred  earthly  creeds  as  wrong, 
But  meaner  far,  which  yet  unblamed 
Stalk  by  us  and  are  not  ashamed  ? 
So,  therefore,  Katie,  as  our  stroll 
Ends  at  this  portal,  while  you  roll 
Those  lustrous  eyes  to  catch  each  ray 
That  may  recall  some  vanished  day, 
I  —  let  them  jeer  and  laugh  who  will  — 
Stoop  down  and  kiss  the  sacred  sill ! 


44  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

So  strongly  sometimes  on  the  sense 
These  fancies  hold  their  influence, 
That  in  long  well-known  streets  I  stray 
Like  one  who  fears  to  lose  his  way. 
The  stranger,  I,  the  native,  she, 
Myself,  not  Kate,  had  crossed  the  sea; 
And  changing  place,  and  mixing  times, 
I  walk  in  unfamiliar  climes  ! 
These  houses,  free  to  every  breeze 
That  blows  from  warm  Floridian  seas, 
Assume  a  massive  English  air, 
And  close  around  an  English  square ; 
While,  if  I  issue  from  the  town, 
An  English  hill  looks  greenly  down, 
Or  round  me  rolls  an  English  park, 
And  in  the  Broad  I  hear  the  Larke ! 
Thus  when,  where  woodland  violets  hide, 
I  rove  with  Katie  at  my  side, 
It  scarce  would  seem  amiss  to  say : 
"  Katie  !  my  home  lies  far  away, 
Beyond  the  pathless  waste  of  brine, 
In  a  young  land  of  palm  and  pine  ! 
There,  by  the  tropic  heats,  the  soul 
Is  touched  as  if  with  living  coal, 
And  glows  with  such  a  fire  as  none 
Can  feel  beneath  a  Northern  sun, 
Unless  —  my  Katie's  heart  attest !  — 
'T  is  kindled  in  an  English  breast ! 


WHY   SILENT  45 

Such  is  the  land  in  which  I  live, 

And,  Katie  !  such  the  soul  I  give. 

Come !  ere  another  morning  beam, 

We  '11  cleave  the  sea  with  wings  of  steam ; 

And  soon,  despite  of  storm  or  calm, 

Beneath  my  native  groves  of  palm, 

Kind  friends  shall  greet,  with  joy  and  pride, 

The  Southron  and  his  English  bride ! " 


WHY   SILENT 

WHY  am  I  silent  from  year  to  year  ? 

Needs  must  I  sing  on  these  blue  March  days  ? 
What  will  you  say,  when  I  tell  you  here, 

That  already,  I  think,  for  a  little  praise, 
I  have  paid  too  dear  ? 

For,  I  know  not  why,  when  I  tell  my  thought, 

It  seems  as  though  I  fling  it  away ; 
And  the  charm  wherewith  a  fancy  is  fraught, 

When  secret,  dies  with  the  fleeting  lay 
Into  which  it  is  wrought. 

So  my  butterfly-dreams  their  golden  wings 
But  seldom  unfurl  from  their  chrysalis ; 

And  thus  I  retain  my  loveliest  things, 

While  the  world,  in  its  worldliness,  does  not  miss 
What  a  poet  sings. 


46  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

TWO   PORTRAITS 
I 

You  say,  as  one  who  shapes  a  life, 
That  you  will  never  be  a  wife, 

And,  laughing  lightly,  ask  my  aid 
To  paint  your  future  as  a  maid. 

This  is  the  portrait ;  and  I  take 
The  softest  colors  for  your  sake : 

The  springtime  of  your  soul  is  dead, 
And  forty  years  have  bent  your  head ; 

The  lines  are  firmer  round  your  mouth, 
But  still  its  smile  is  like  the  South. 

Your  eyes,  grown  deeper,  are  not  sad, 
Yet  never  more  than  gravely  glad ; 

And  the  old  charm  still  lurks  within 
The  cloven  dimple  of  your  chin. 

Some  share,  perhaps,  of  youthful  gloss 
Your  cheek  hath  shed ;  but  still  across 

The  delicate  ear  are  folded  down 
Those  silken  locks  of  chestnut  brown ; 


TWO   PORTRAITS  47 

Though  here  and  there  a  thread  of  gray 
Steals  through  them  like  a  lunar  ray. 

One  might  suppose  your  life  had  passed 
Unvexed  by  any  troubling  blast ; 

And  such  —  for  all  that  I  foreknow  — 
May  be  the  truth !     The  deeper  woe ! 

A  loveless  heart  is  seldom  stirred ; 
And  sorrow  shuns  the  mateless  bird  ; 

But  ah !  through  cares  alone  we  reach 
The  happiness  which  mocketh  speech ; 

In  the  white  courts  beyond  the  stars 
The  noblest  brow  is  seamed  with  scars ; 

And  they  on  earth  who  've  wept  the  most 
Sit  highest  of  the  heavenly  host. 

Grant  that  your  maiden  life  hath  sped 
In  music  o'er  a  golden  bed, 

With  rocks,  and  winds,  and  storms  at  truce, 
And  not  without  a  noble  use ; 

Yet  are  you  happy  ?     In  your  air 
I  see  a  nameless  want  appear, 


48  POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 

And  a  faint  shadow  on  your  cheek 
Tells  what  the  lips  refuse  to  speak. 

You  have  had  all  a  maid  could  hope 
In  the  most  cloudless  horoscope  : 

The  strength  that  cometh  from  above ; 
A  Christian  mother's  holy  love  ; 

And  always  at  your  soul's  demand 
A  brother's,  sister's  heart  and  hand. 

Small  need  your  heart  hath  had  to  roam 
Beyond  the  circle  of  your  home ; 

And  yet  upon  your  wish  attends 
A  loving  throng  of  genial  friends. 

What,  in  a  lot  so  sweet  as  this, 
Is  wanting  to  complete  your  bliss  ? 

And  to  what  secret  shall  I  trace 

The  clouds  that  sometimes  cross  your  face, 

And  that  sad  look  which  now  and  then 
Comes,  disappears,  and  comes  again, 

And  dies  reluctantly  away 

In  those  clear  eyes  of  azure  gray? 


TWO   PORTRAITS  49 

At  best,  and  after  all,  the  place 
You  fill  with  such  a  serious  grace, 

Hath  much  to  try  a  woman's  heart, 
And  you  but  play  a  painful  part. 

The  world  around,  with  little  ruth, 

Still  laughs  at  maids  who  have  not  youth, 

And,  right  or  wrong,  the  old  maid  rests 
The  victim  of  its  paltry  jests, 

And  still  is  doomed  to  meet  and  bear 
Its  pitying  smile  or  furtive  sneer. 

These  are  indeed  but  petty  things, 

And  yet  they  touch  some  hearts  like  stings. 

But  I  acquit  you  of  the  shame 
Of  being  unresisting  game ; 

For  you  are  of  such  tempered  clay 
As  turns  far  stronger  shafts  away, 

And  all  that  foes  or  fools  could  guide 
Would  only  curl  that  lip  of  pride. 

How  then,  O  weary  one  !  explain 
The  sources  of  that  hidden  pain  ? 


50  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Alas !  you  have  divined  at  length 
How  little  you  have  used  your  strength, 

Which,  with  who  knows  what  human  good, 
Lies  buried  in  that  maidenhood, 

Where,  as  amid  a  field  of  flowers, 

You  have  but  played  with  April  showers. 

Ah  !  we  would  wish  the  world  less  fair, 
If  Spring  alone  adorned  the  year, 

And  Autumn  came  not  with  its  fruit, 
And  Autumn  hymns  were  ever  mute. 

So  I  remark  without  surprise 
That,  as  the  unvarying  season  flies, 

From  day  to  night  and  night  to  day, 
You  sicken  of  your  endless  May. 

In  this  poor  life  we  may  not  cross 
One  virtuous  instinct  without  loss, 

And  the  soul  grows  not  to  its  height 
Till  love  calls  forth  its  utmost  might. 

Not  blind  to  all  you  might  have  been, 
And  with  some  consciousness  of  sin  — 


TWO   PORTRAITS  51 

Because  with  love  you  sometimes  played, 
And  choice,  not  fate,  hath  kept  you  maid  — 

You  feel  that  you  must  pass  from  earth 
But  half-acquainted  with  its  worth, 

And  that  within  your  heart  are  deeps 
In  which  a  nobler  woman  sleeps ; 

That  not  the  maiden,  but  the  wife 
Grasps  the  whole  lesson  of  a  life, 

While  such  as  you  but  sit  and  dream 
Along  the  surface  of  its  stream. 

And  doubtless  sometimes,  all  unsought, 
There  comes  upon  your  hour  of  thought, 

Despite  the  struggles  of  your  will, 
A  sense  of  something  absent  still ; 

And  then  you  cannot  help  but  yearn 
To  love  and  be  beloved  in  turn, 

As  they  are  loved,  and  love,  who  live 
As  love  were  all  that  life  could  give  j 

And  in  a  transient  clasp  or  kiss 
Crowd  an  eternity  of  bliss ; 


52  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

They  who  of  every  mortal  joy 

Taste  always  twice,  nor  feel  them  cloy, 

Or,  if  woes  come,  in  Sorrow's  hour 
Are  strengthened  by  a  double  power. 


II 


Here  ends  my  feeble  sketch  of  what 
Might,  but  will  never  be  your  lot ; 

And  I  foresee  how  oft  these  rhymes 
Shall  make  you  smile  in  after-times. 

If  I  have  read  your  nature  right, 
It  only  waits  a  spark  of  light ; 

And  when  that  comes,  as  come  it  must, 
It  will  not  fall  on  arid  dust, 

Nor  yet  on  that  which  breaks  to  flame 
In  the  first  blush  of  maiden  shame ; 

But  on  a  heart  which,  even  at  rest, 
Is  warmer  than  an  April  nest, 

Where,  settling  soft,  that  spark  shall  creep 
About  as  gently  as  a  sleep ; 


TWO   PORTRAITS  53 

Still  stealing  on  with  pace  so  slow 
Yourself  will  scarcely  feel  the  glow, 

Till  after  many  and  many  a  day, 
Although  no  gleam  its  course  betray, 

It  shall  attain  the  inmost  shrine, 
And  wrap  it  in  a  fire  divine  ! 

I  know  not  when  or  whence  indeed 
Shall  fall  and  burst  the  burning  seed, 

But  oh !  once  kindled,  it  will  blaze, 
I  know,  forever !     By  its  rays 

You  will  perceive,  with  subtler  eyes, 
The  meaning  in  the  earth  and  skies, 

Which,  with  their  animated  chain 

Of  grass  and  flowers,  and  sun  and  rain, 

Of  green  below,  and  blue  above, 
Are  but  a  type  of  married  love. 

You  will  perceive  that  in  the  breast 
The  germs  of  many  virtues  rest, 

Which,  ere  they  feel  a  lover's  breath, 
Lie  in  a  temporary  death  ; 


54     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

And  till  the  heart  is  wooed  and  won 
It  is  an  earth  without  a  sun. 


Ill 

But  now,  stand  forth  as  sweet  as  life ! 
And  let  me  paint  you  as  a  wife. 

I  note  some  changes  in  your  face, 
And  in  your  mien  a  graver  grace ; 

Yet  the  calm  forehead  lightly  bears 
Its  weight  of  twice  a  score  of  years ; 

And  that  one  love  which  on  this  earth 
Can  wake  the  heart:  to  all  its  worth, 

And  to  their  height  can  lift  and  bind 
The  powers  of  soul,  and  sense,  and  mind, 

Hath  not  allowed  a  charm  to  fade  — 
And  the  wife  's  lovelier  than  the  maid. 

An  air  of  still,  though  bright  repose 
Tells  that  a  tender  hand  bestows 

All  that  a  generous  manhood  may 
To  make  your  life  one  bridal  day, 


TWO   PORTRAITS  55 

While  the  kind  eyes  betray  no  less, 
In  their  blue  depths  of  tenderness, 

That  you  have  learned  the  truths  which  lie 
Behind  that  holy  mystery, 

Which,  with  its  blisses  and  its  woes, 
Nor  man  nor  maiden  ever  knows. 

If  now,  as  to  the  eyes  of  one 

Whose  glance  not  even  thought  can  shun, 

Your  soul  lay  open  to  my  view, 
I,  looking  all  its  nature  through, 

Could  see  no  incompleted  part, 

For  the  whole  woman  warms  your  heart. 

I  cannot  tell  how  many  dead 
You  number  in  the  cycles  fled, 

And  you  but  look  the  more  serene 
For  all  the  griefs  you  may  have  seen, 

As  you  had  gathered  from  the  dust 

The  flowers  of  Peace,  and  Hope,  and  Trust. 

Your  smile  is  even  sweeter  now 
Than  when  it  lit  your  maiden  brow, 

7 


56      POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

And  that  which  wakes  this  gentler  charm 
Coos  at  this  moment  on  your  arm. 

Your  voice  was  always  soft  in  youth, 
And  had  the  very  sound  of  truth, 

But  never  were  its  tones  so  mild 
Until  you  blessed  your  earliest  child ; 

And  when  to  soothe  some  little  wrong 
It  melts  into  a  mother's  song, 

The  same  strange  sweetness  which  in  years 
Long  vanished  filled  the  eyes  with  tears, 

And  (even  when  mirthful)  gave  always 
A  pathos  to  your  girlish  lays, 

Falls,  with  perchance  a  deeper  thrill, 
Upon  the  breathless  listener  still. 

I  cannot  guess  in  what  fair  spot 

The  chance  of  Time  hath  fixed  your  lot, 

Nor  can  I  name  what  manly  breast 
Gives  to  that  head  a  welcome  rest ; 

I  cannot  tell  if  partial  Fate 

Hath  made  you  poor,  or  rich,  or  great ; 


LA   BELLE  JUIVE  S7 

But  oh  !  whatever  be  your  place, 
I  never  saw  a  form  or  face 


To  which  more  plainly  hath  been  lent 
The  blessing  of  a  full  content ! 


LA   BELLE  JUIVE 

Is  it  because  your  sable  hair 
Is  folded  over  brows  that  wear 
At  times  a  too  imperial  air  j 

Or  is  it  that  the  thoughts  which  rise 
In  those  dark  orbs  do  seek  disguise 
Beneath  the  lids  of  Eastern  eyes ; 

That  choose  whatever  pose  or  place 
May  chance  to  please,  in  you  I  trace 
The  noblest  woman  of  your  race  ? 

The  crowd  is  sauntering  at  its  ease, 
And  humming  like  a  hive  of  bees  — 
You  take  your  seat  and  touch  the  keys 

I  do  not  hear  the  giddy  throng ; 
The  sea  avenges  Israel's  wrong, 
And  on  the  wind  floats  Miriam's  song ! 


58     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

You  join  me  with  a  stately  grace ; 

Music  to  Poesy  gives  place  ; 

Some  grand  emotion  lights  your  face : 

At  once  I  stand  by  Mizpeh's  walls : 
With  smiles  the  martyred  daughter  falls, 
And  desolate  are  Mizpeh's  halls ! 

Intrusive  babblers  come  between  ; 
With  calm,  pale  brow  and  lofty  mien, 
You  thread  the  circle  like  a  queen  ! 

Then  sweeps  the  royal  Esther  by ; 
The  deep  devotion  in  her  eye 
Is  looking  "If  I  die,  I  die!" 

You  stroll  the  garden's  flowery  walks  ; 
The  plants  to  me  are  grainless  stalks, 
And  Ruth  to  old  Naomi  talks. 

Adopted  child  of  Judah's  creed, 
Like  Judah's  daughters,  true  at  need, 
I  see  you  mid  the  alien  seed. 

I  watch  afar  the  gleaner  sweet ; 
I  wake  like  Boaz  in  the  wheat, 
And  find  you  lying  at  my  feet ! 


AN   EXOTIC  59 

My  feet !  Oh !  if  the  spell  that  lures 

My  heart  through  all  these  dreams  endures, 

How  soon  shall  I  be  stretched  at  yours ! 


AN   EXOTIC 

NOT  in  a  climate  near  the  sun 

Did  the  cloud  with  its  trailing  fringes  float, 
Whence,  white  as  the  down  of  an  angel's  plume, 

Fell  the  snow  of  her  brow  and  throat. 

And  the  ground  had  been  rich  for  a  thousand  years 
With  the  blood  of  heroes,  and  sages,  and  kings, 

Where  the  rose  that  blooms  in  her  exquisite  cheek 
Unfolded  the  flush  of  its  wings. 

On  a  land  where  the  faces  are  fair,  though  pale 
As  a  moonlit  mist  when  the  winds  are  still, 

She  breaks  like  a  morning  in  Paradise 
Through  the  palms  of  an  orient  hill. 

Her  beauty,  perhaps,  were  all  too  bright, 

But  about  her  there  broods  some  delicate  spell, 

Whence  the  wondrous  charm  of  the  girl  grows  soft 
As  the  light  in  an  English  dell. 

There  is  not  a  story  of  faith  and  truth 
On  the  starry  scroll  of  her  country's  fame, 


60  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

But  has  helped  to  shape  her  stately  mien, 
And  to  touch  her  soul  with  flame. 


I  sometimes  forget,  as  she  sweeps  me  a  bow, 
That  I  gaze  on  a  simple  English  maid, 

And  I  bend  my  head,  as  if  to  a  queen 
Who  is  courting  my  lance  and  blade. 

Once,  as  we  read,  in  a  curtained  niche, 
A  poet  who  sang  of  her  sea-throned  isle, 

There  was  something  of  Albion's  mighty  Bess 
In  the  flash  of  her  haughty  smile. 

She  seemed  to  gather  from  every  age 
All  the  greatness  of  England  about  her  there, 

And  my  fancy  wove  a  royal  crown 
Of  the  dusky  gold  of  her  hair. 

But  it  was  no  queen  to  whom  that  day, 
In  the  dim  green  shade  of  a  trellised  vine, 

I  whispered  a  hope  that  had  somewhat  to  do 
With  a  small  white  hand  in  mine. 

The  Tudor  had  vanished,  and,  as  I  spoke, 

'T  was  herself  looked  out  of  her  frank  brown  eye, 

And  an  answer  was  burning  upon  her  face, 
Ere  I  caught  the  low  reply. 

What  was  it !     Nothing  the  world  need  know  — 
The  stars  saw  our  parting  !     Enough,  that  then 


THE   ROSEBUDS  61 

I  walked  from  the  porch  with  the  tread  of  a  king, 
And  she  was  a  queen  again ! 


THE  ROSEBUDS 

YES,  in  that  dainty  ivory  shrine, 
With  those  three  pallid  buds,  I  twine 
And  fold  away  a  dream  divine ! 

One  night  they  lay  upon  a  breast 
Where  Love  hath  made  his  fragrant  nest, 
And  throned  me  as  a  life-long  guest. 

Near  that  chaste  heart  they  seemed  to  me 
Types  of  far  fairer  flowers  to  be  — 
The  rosebuds  of  a  human  tree ! 

Buds  that  shall  bloom  beside  my  hearth, 
And  there  be  held  of  richer  worth 
Than  all  the  kingliest  gems  of  earth. 

Ah  me  !  the  pathos  of  the  thought ! 
I  had  not  deemed  she  wanted  aught ; 
Yet  what  a  tenderer  charm  it  wrought ! 

I  know  not  if  she  marked  the  flame 
That  lit  my  cheek,  but  not  from  shame, 
When  one  sweet  image  dimly  came. 


62  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

There  was  a  murmur  soft  and  low ; 
White  folds  of  cambric,  parted  slow ; 
And  little  fingers  played  with  snow ! 

How  far  my  fancy  dared  to  stray, 
A  lover's  reverence  needs  not  say  — 
Enough  —  the  vision  passed  away ! 

Passed  in  a  mist  of  happy  tears, 
While  something  in  my  tranced  ears 
Hummed  like  the  future  in  a  seer's ! 


A   MOTHER'S   WAIL 

MY  babe  !  my  tiny  babe  !  my  only  babe  ! 
My  single  rose-bud  in  a  crown  of  thorns ! 
My  lamp  that  in  that  narrow  hut  of  life, 
Whence  I  looked  forth  upon  a  night  of  storm ! 
Burned  with  the  lustre  of  the  moon  and  stars ! 

My  babe  !  my  tiny  babe  !  my  only  babe  ! 
Behold  the  bud  is  gone  !  the  thorns  remain  ! 
My  lamp  hath  fallen  from  its  niche  —  ah,  me  ! 
Earth  drinks  the  fragrant  flame,  and  I  am  left 
Forever  and  forever  in  the  dark ! 

My  babe  !  my  babe  !  my  own  and  only  babe  ! 
Where  art  thou  now  ?     If  somewhere  in  the  sky 


A   MOTHER'S   WAIL  63 

An  angel  hold  thee  in  his  radiant  arms, 
I  challenge  him  to  clasp  thy  tender  form 
With  half  the  fervor  of  a  mother's  love ! 

Forgive  me,  Lord  !  forgive  my  reckless  grief ! 
Forgive  me  that  this  rebel,  selfish  heart 
Would  almost  make  me  jealous  for  my  child, 
Though  thy  own  lap  enthroned  him.     Lord,  thou 

hast 
So  many  such !     I  have  —  ah !  had  but  one ! 

O  yet  once  more,  my  babe,  to  hear  thy  cry ! 

O  yet  once  more,  my  babe,  to  see  thy  smile ! 

O  yet  once  more  to  feel  against  my  breast 

Those   cool,   soft  hands,   that  warm,   wet,   eager 

mouth, 
With  the  sweet  sharpness  of  its  budding  pearls ! 

But  it  must  never,  never  more  be  mine 
To  mark  the  growing  meaning  in  thine  eyes, 
To  watch  thy  soul  unfolding  leaf  by  leaf, 
Or  catch,  with  ever  fresh  surprise  and  joy, 
Thy  dawning  recognitions  of  the  world. 

Three  different  shadows  of  thyself,  my  babe, 
Change  with  each  other  while  I  weep.     The  first, 
The  sweetest,  yet  the  not  least  fraught  with  pain, 
Clings  like  my  living  boy  around  my  neck, 
Or  purrs  and  murmurs  softly  at  my  feet ! 


64     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

Another  is  a  little  mound  of  earth  ; 

That  comes  the  oftenest,  darling  !     In  my  dreams, 

I  see  it  beaten  by  the  midnight  rain, 

Or  chilled  beneath  the  moon.     Ah  !  what  a  couch 

For  that  which  I  have  shielded  from  a  breath 

That  would  not  stir  the  violets  on  thy  grave  ! 

The  third,  my  precious  babe !  the  third,  O  Lord ! 
Is  a  fair  cherub  face  beyond  the  stars, 
Wearing  the  roses  of  a  mystic  bliss, 
Yet  sometimes  not  unsaddened  by  a  glance 
Turned  earthward  on  a  mother  in  her  woe ! 

This  is  the  vision,  Lord,  that  I  would  keep 
Before  me  always.     But,  alas  !  as  yet, 
It  is  the  dimmest  and  the  rarest,  too ! 
O  touch  my  sight,  or  break  the  cloudy  bars 
That  hide  it,  lest  I  madden  where  I  kneel ! 


OUR  WILLIE 

'T  WAS  merry  Christmas  when  he  came, 

Our  little  boy  beneath  the  sod ; 

And  brighter  burned  the  Christmas  flame, 

And  merrier  sped  the  Christmas  game, 

Because  within  the  house  there  lay 

A  shape  as  tiny  as  a  fay  — 

The  Christmas  gift  of  God  ! 


OUR   WILLIE  65 

In  wreaths  and  garlands  on  the  walls 
The  holly  hung  its  ruby  balls, 

The  mistletoe  its  pearls ; 
And  a  Christmas  tree's  fantastic  fruits 
Woke  laughter  like  a  choir  of  flutes 

From  happy  boys  and  girls. 
For  the  mirth,  which  else  had  swelled  as  shrill 
As  a  school  let  loose  to  its  errant  will, 

Was  softened  by  the  thought, 
That  in  a  dim  hushed  room  above 
A  mother's  pains  in  a  mother's  love 

Were  only  just  forgot. 
The  jest,  the  tale,  the  toast,  the  glee, 
All  took  a  sober  tone ; 
We  spoke  of  the  babe  upstairs,  as  we 
Held  festival  for  him  alone. 
When  the  bells  rang  in  the  Christmas  morn, 
It  scarcely  seemed  a  sin  to  say 
That  they  rang  because  that  babe  was  born, 
Not  less  than  for  the  sacred  day. 
Ah !  Christ  forgive  us  for  the  crime 
Which  drowned  the  memories  of  the  time 

In  a  merely  mortal  bliss  ! 
We  owned  the  error  when  the  mirth 
Of  another  Christmas  lit  the  hearth 

Of  every  home  but  this. 
When,  in  that  lonely  burial-ground, 
With  every  Christmas  sight  and  sound 
Removed  or  shunned,  we  kept 


66     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

A  mournful  Christmas  by  the  mound 
Where  little  Willie  slept ! 

Ah,  hapless  mother !  darling  wife ! 
I  might  say  nothing  more, 
And  the  dull  cold  world  would  hold 
The  story  of  that  precious  life 

As  amply  told ! 

Shall  we,  shall  you  and  I,  before 
That  world's  unsympathetic  eyes 
Lay  other  relics  from  our  store 

Of  tender  memories  ? 
What  could  it  know  of  the  joy  and  love 
That  throbbed  and  smiled  and  wept  above 

An  unresponsive  thing  ? 
And  who  could  share  the  ecstatic  thrill 
With  which  we  watched  the  upturned  bill 
Of  our  bird  at  its  living  spring  ? 
Shall  we  tell  how  in  the  time  gone  by, 
Beneath  all  changes  of  the  sky, 
And  in  an  ordinary  home 

Amid  the  city's  din, 
Life  was  to  us  a  crystal  dome, 

Our  babe  the  flame  therein  ? 
Ah !  this  were  jargon  on  the  mart ; 
And  though  some  gentle  friend, 
And  many  and  many  a  suffering  heart, 
Would  weep  and  comprehend, 
Yet  even  these  might  fail  to  see 


OUR  WILLIE  67 

What  we  saw  daily  in  the  child  — 

Not  the  mere  creature  undefiled, 

But  the  winged  cherub  soon  to  be. 

That  wandering  hand  which  seemed  to  reach 

At  angel  finger-tips,  f 

And  that  murmur  like  a  mystic  speech 

Upon  the  rosy  lips, 
That  something  in  the  serious  face 
Holier  than  even  its  infant  grace, 
And  that  rapt  gaze  on  empty  space, 
Which  made  us,  half  believing,  say, 
"  Ah,  little  wide-eyed  seer !  who  knows 
But  that  for  you  this  chamber  glows 
With  stately  shapes  and  solemn  shows  ? " 
Which  touched  us,  too,  with  vague  alarms, 
Lest  in  the  circle  of  our  arms 
We  held  a  being  less  akin 
To  his  parents  in  a  world  of  sin 
Than  to  beings  not  of  clay : 
How  could  we  speak  in  human  phrase, 
Of  such  scarce  earthly  traits  and  ways, 

What  would  not  seem 

A  doting  dream, 
In  the  creed  of  these  sordid  days  ? 

No  !  let  us  keep 

Deep,  deep, 

In  sorrowing  heart  and  aching  brain, 
This  story  hidden  with  the  pain, 
Which  since  that  blue  October  night 


68     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

When  Willie  vanished  from  our  sight, 

Must  haunt  us  even  in  our  sleep. 

In  the  gloom  of  the  chamber  where  he  died, 

And  by  that  grave  which,  through  our  care, 

From  Yule  to  Yule  of  every  year, 

Is  made  like  Spring  to  bloom ; 

And  where,  at  times,  we  catch  the  sigh 

As  of  an  angel  floating  nigh, 

Who  longs  but  has  not  power  to  tell 

That  in  that  violet-shrouded  cell 

Lies  nothing  better  than  the  shell 

Which  he  had  cast  aside  — 

By  that  sweet  grave,  in  that  dark  room, 

We  may  weave  at  will  for  each  other's  ear, 

Of  that  life,  and  that  love,  and  that  early  doom, 

The  tale  which  is  shadowed  here : 

To  us  alone  it  will  always  be 

As  fresh  as  our  own  misery ; 

But  enough,  alas !  for  the  world  is  said, 

In  the  brief  "  Here  lieth  "  of  the  dead ! 


ADDRESS  69 

ADDRESS  DELIVERED  AT  THE  OPENING 
OF  THE  NEW  THEATRE  AT  RICHMOND 

A   PRIZE   POEM 

A  FAIRY  ring 

Drawn  in  the  crimson  of  a  battle-plain  — 
From  whose  weird  circle  every  loathsome  thing 

And  sight  and  sound  of  pain 
Are  banished,  while  about  it  in  the  air, 
And  from  the  ground,  and  from  the  low-hung  skies, 

Throng,  in  a  vision  fair 
As  ever  lit  a  prophet's  dying  eyes, 

Gleams  of  that  unseen  world 
That  lies  about  us,  rainbow-tinted  shapes 

With  starry  wings  unfurled, 
Poised  for  a  moment  on  such  airy  capes 

As  pierce  the  golden  foam 

Of  sunset's  silent  main  — 
Would  image  what  in  this  enchanted  dome, 

Amid  the  night  of  war  and  death 
In  which  the  armed  city  draws  its  breath, 

We  have  built  up  ! 
For  though  no  wizard  wand  or  magic  cup 

The  spell  hath  wrought, 
Within  this  charmed  fane,  we  ope  the  gates 

Of  that  divinest  Fairy-land, 

Where  under  loftier  fates 
Than  rule  the  vulgar  earth  on  which  we  stand, 


70  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Move  the  bright  creatures  of  the  realm  of  thought. 
Shut  for  one  happy  evening  from  the  flood 
That  roars  around  us,  here  you  may  behold  — 

As  if  a  desert  way 

Could  blossom  and  unfold 

A  garden  fresh  with  May  — 
Substantialized  in  breathing  flesh  and  blood, 

Souls  that  upon  the  poet's  page 

Have  lived  from  age  to  age, 
And  yet  have  never  donned  this  mortal  clay. 

A  golden  strand 
Shall  sometimes  spread  before  you  like  the  isle 

Where  fair  Miranda's  smile 
Met  the  sweet  stranger  whom  the  father's  art 

Had  led  unto  her  heart, 
Which,  like  a  bud  that  waited  for  the  light, 

Burst  into  bloom  at  sight ! 
Love  shall  grow  softer  in  each  maiden's  eyes 
As  Juliet  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 

And  prattles  to  the  night. 

Anon,  a  reverend  form, 

With  tattered  robe  and  forehead  bare, 
That  challenge  all  the  torments  of  the  air, 

Goes  by ! 

And  the  pent  feelings  choke  in  one  long  sigh, 
While,  as  the  mimic  thunder  rolls,  you  hear 

The  noble  wreck  of  Lear 
Reproach  like  things  of  life  the  ancient  skies, 

And  commune  with  the  storm ! 


ADDRESS  71 

Lo  !  next  a  dim  and  silent  chamber  where, 
Wrapt^  in  glad  dreams  in  which,  perchance,  the 
Moor 

Tells  his  strange  story  o'er, 
The  gentle  Desdemona  chastely  lies, 
Unconscious  of  the  loving  murderer  nigh. 

Then  through  a  hush  like  death 

Stalks  Denmark's  mailed  ghost ! 
And  Hamlet  enters  with  that  thoughtful  breath 
Which  is  the  trumpet  to  a  countless  host 
Of  reasons,  but  which  wakes  no  deed  from  sleep ; 

For  while  it  calls  to  strife, 
He  pauses  on  the  very  brink  of  fact 
To  toy  as  with  the  shadow  of  an  act, 
And  utter  those  wise  saws  that  cut  so  deep 

Into  the  core  of  life  ! 

Nor  shall  be  wanting  many  a  scene 

Where  forms  of  more  familiar  mien, 
Moving  through  lowlier  pathways,  shall  present 

The  world  of  every  day, 
Such  as  it  whirls  along  the  busy  quay, 
Or  sits  beneath  a  rustic  orchard  wall, 
Or  floats  about  a  fashion-freighted  hall, 
Or  toils  in  attics  dark  the  night  away. 
Love,   hate,   grief,   joy,  gain,  glory,   shame,   shall 

meet, 
As  in  the  round  wherein  our  lives  are  pent ; 

Chance  for  a  while  shall  seem  to  reign, 

8 


72  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

While  Goodness  roves  like  Guilt  about  the  street, 

And  Guilt  looks  innocent. 
But  all  at  last  shall  vindicate  the  right, 
Crime  shall  be  meted  with  its  proper  pain, 
Motes  shall  be  taken  from  the  doubter's  sight, 
And  Fortune's  general  justice  rendered  plain. 
Of  honest  laughter  there  shall  be  no  dearth, 
Wit  shall  shake  hands  with  humor  grave  and  sweet, 
Our  wisdom  shall  not  be  too  wise  for  mirth, 
Nor  kindred  follies  want  a  fool  to  greet. 
As  sometimes  from  the  meanest  spot  of  earth 
A  sudden  beauty  unexpected  starts, 
So  you  shall  find  some  germs  of  hidden  worth 

Within  the  vilest  hearts ; 

And  now  and  then,  when  in  those  moods  that  turn 
To  the  cold  Muse  that  whips  a  fault  with  sneers, 
You  shall,  perchance,  be  strangely  touched  to  learn 

You  Ve  struck  a  spring  of  tears  ! 

But  while  we  lead  you  thus  from  change  to  change, 
Shall  we  not  find  within  our  ample  range 
Some  type  to  elevate  a  people's  heart  — 
Some  hero  who  shall  teach  a  hero's  part 

In  this  distracted  time  ? 
Rise  from  thy  sleep  of  ages,  noble  Tell ! 
And,  with  the  Alpine  thunders  of  thy  voice, 
As  if  across  the  billows  unenthralled 
Thy  Alps  unto  the  Alleghanies  called, 

Bid  Liberty  rejoice ! 


ADDRESS  73 

Proclaim  upon  this  trans- Atlantic  strand 

The  deeds  which,  more  than  their  own  awful  mien, 

Make  every  crag  of  Switzerland  sublime ! 

And  say  to  those  whose  feeble  souls  would  lean, 

Not  on  themselves,  but  on  some  outstretched  hand, 

That  once  a  single  mind  sufficed  to  quell 

The  malice  of  a  tyrant ;  let  them  know 

That  each  may  crowd  in  every  well- aimed  blow, 

Not  the  poor  strength  alone  of  arm  and  brand, 

But  the  whole  spirit  of  a  mighty  land ! 

Bid  Liberty  rejoice !     Aye,  though  its  day 
Be  far  or  near,  these  clouds  shall  yet  be  red 
With  the  large  promise  of  the  coming  ray. 
Meanwhile,  with  that  calm  courage  which  can  smile 
Amid  the  terrors  of  the  wildest  fray, 
Let  us  among  the  charms  of  Art  awhile 

Fleet  the  deep  gloom  away ; 
Nor  yet  forget  that  on  each  hand  and  head 
Rest  the  dear  rights  for  which  we  fight  and  pray. 


74  POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 

A  VISION   OF  POESY 
PART  I 


IN  a  far  country,  and  a  distant  age, 

Ere  sprites  and  fays  had  bade  farewell  to  earth, 
A  boy  was  born  of  humble  parentage ; 

The  stars  that  shone  upon  his  lonely  birth 
Did  seem  to  promise  sovereignty  and  fame  — 
Yet  no  tradition  hath  preserved  his  name. 

ii 

'T  is  said  that  on  the  night  when  he  was  born, 
A  beauteous   shape   swept   slowly  through   the 

room; 
Its  eyes  broke  on  the  infant  like  a  morn, 

And  his  cheek  brightened  like  a  rose  in  bloom ; 
But  as  it  passed  away  there  followed  after 
A  sigh  of  pain,  and  sounds  of  elvish  laughter. 

in 
And  so  his  parents  deemed  him  to  be  blest 

Beyond  the  lot  of  mortals  ;  they  were  poor 
As  the  most  timid  bird  that  stored  its  nest 

With  the  stray  gleanings  at  their  cottage-door : 
Yet  they  contrived  to  rear  their  little  dove, 
And  he  repaid  them  with  the  tenderest  love. 


A  VISION   OF   POESY  75 

IV 

The  child  was  very  beautiful  in  sooth, 

And  as  he  waxed  in  years  grew  lovelier  still ; 

On  his  fair  brow  the  aureole  of  truth 

Beamed,  and  the  purest  maidens,  with  a  thrill, 

Looked  in  his  eyes,  and  from  their  heaven  of  blue 

Saw  thoughts  like  sinless  Angels  peering  through. 


Need  there  was  none  of  censure  or  of  praise 
To  mould  him  to  the  kind  parental  hand ; 

Yet  there  was  ever  something  in  his  ways, 

Which  those  about  him  could  not  understand ; 

A  self-withdrawn  and  independent  bliss, 

Beside  the  father's  love,  the  mother's  kiss. 

VI 

For  oft,  when  he  believed  himself  alone, 

They  caught  brief  snatches  of  mysterious  rhymes, 

Which  he  would  murmur  in  an  undertone, 

Like  a  pleased  bee's  in  summer ;  and  at  times 

A  strange  far  look  would  come  into  his  eyes, 

As  if  he  saw  a  vision  in  the  skies. 

vn 
And  he  upon  a  simple  leaf  would  pore 

As  if  its  very  texture  unto  him 
Had  some  deep  meaning ;  sometimes  by  the  door, 

From  noon  until  a  summer-day  grew  dim, 


76     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

He  lay  and  watched  the  clouds  ;  and  to  his  thought 
Night  with  her  stars  but  fitful  slumbers  brought. 

VIII 

In  the  long  hours  of  twilight,  when  the  breeze 
Talked  in  low  tones  along  the  woodland  rills, 

Or  the  loud  North  its  stormy  minstrelsies 
Blent  with  wild  noises  from  the  distant  hills, 

The  boy  —  his  rosy  hand  against  his  ear 

Curved  like   a  sea-shell  —  hushed  as   some  rapt 
seer, 

IX 

Followed  the  sounds,  and  ever  and  again, 

As  the  wind  came  and  went,  in  storm  or  play, 

He  seemed  to  hearken  as  to  some  far  strain 
Of  mingled  voices  calling  him  away  ; 

And  they  who  watched  him  held  their  breath  to 
trace 

The  still  and  fixed  attention  in  his  face. 


Once,  on  a  cold  and  loud-voiced  winter  night, 
The  three  were  seated  by  their  cottage-fire  — 

The  mother  watching  by  its  flickering  light 
The  wakeful  urchin,  and  the  dozing  sire ; 

There  was  a  brief,  quick  motion  like  a  bird's, 

And  the  boy's  thought  thus  rippled  into  words : 


A  VISION   OF   POESY  77 

XI 

"  O  mother  !  thou  hast  taught  me  many  things, 
But  none  I  think  more  beautiful  than  speech  — 

A  nobler  power  than  even  those  broad  wings 
I  used  to  pray  for,  when  I  longed  to  reach 

That  distant  peak  which  on  our  vale  looks  down, 

And  wears  the  star  of  evening  for  a  crown. 

XII 

"  But,  mother,  while  our  human  words  are  rife 
To  us  with  meaning,  other  sounds  there  be 

Which  seem,  and  are,  the  language  of  a  life 
Around,  yet  unlike  ours  :  winds  talk ;  the  sea 

Murmurs  articulately,  and  the  sky 

Listens,  and  answers,  though  inaudibly. 

XIII 

"  By  stream  and  spring,  in  glades  and  woodlands 
lone, 

Beside  our  very  cot  I  Ve  gathered  flowers 
Inscribed  with  signs  and  characters  unknown ; 

But  the  frail  scrolls  still  baffle  all  my  powers : 
What  is  this  language  and  where  is  the  key 
That  opes  its  weird  and  wondrous  mystery  ? 

XIV 

"  The  forests  know  it,  and  the  mountains  know, 
And  it  is  written  in  the  sunset's  dyes  ; 


78  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

A  revelation  to  the  world  below 

Is  daily  going  on  before  our  eyes  \ 
And,  but  for  sinful  thoughts,  I  do  not  doubt 
That  we  could  spell  the  thrilling  secret  out. 

xv 
"  O  mother  !  somewhere  on  this  lovely  earth 

I  lived,  and  understood  that  mystic  tongue, 
But,  for  some  reason,  to  my  second  birth 

Only  the  dullest  memories  have  clung, 
Like  that  fair  tree  that  even  while  blossoming 
Keeps  the  dead  berries  of  a  former  spring. 

XVI 

"Who  shall  put  life  in  these  ?  —  my  nightly  dreams 
Some  teacher  of  supernal  powers  foretell ; 

A  fair  and  stately  shape  appears,  which  seems 
Bright  with  all  truth ;  and  once,  in  a  dark  dell 

Within  the  forest,  unto  me  there  came 

A  voice  that  must  be  hers,  which  called  my  name." 

XVII 

Puzzled  and  frightened,  wondering  more  and  more, 
The  mother  heard,  but  did  not  comprehend ; 

"  So  early  dallying  with  forbidden  lore  ! 

Oh,  what  will  chance,  and  wherein  will  it  end  ? 

My   child !    my   child ! "   she   caught   him   to   her 
breast, 

"  Oh,  let  me  kiss  these  wildering  thoughts  to  rest ! 


A  VISION   OF   POESY  79 

XVIII 

"  They  cannot  come  from  God,  who  freely  gives 
All  that  we  need  to  have,  or  ought  to  know  j 

Beware,  my  son  !  some  evil  influence  strives 
To  grieve  thy  parents,  and  to  work  thee  woe ; 

Alas !  the  vision  I  misunderstood ! 

It  could  not  be  an  angel  fair  and  good." 

XIX 

And  then,  in  low  and  tremulous  tones,  she  told 
The  story  of  his  birth-night ;  the  boy's  eyes, 

As  the  wild  tale  went  on,  were  bright  and  bold, 
With  a  weird  look  that  did  not  seem  surprise : 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  "  this  lady  and  her  elves 

Will  one  day  come,  and  take  me  to  themselves." 

xx 

"  And  wouldst  thou  leave  us  ?  "     "  Dearest  mother, 

no  ! 
Hush !  I  will  check  these  thoughts  that  give  thee 

pain; 
Or,  if  they  flow,  as  they  perchance  must  flow, 

At  least  I  will  not  utter  them  again  ; 
Hark  !  didst  thou  hear  a  voice  like  many  streams  ? 
Mother !  it  is  the  spirit  of  my  dreams  !  " 

XXI 

Thenceforth,  whatever  impulse  stirred  below, 
In  the  deep  heart  beneath  that  childish  breast, 


8o     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

Those  lips  were  sealed,  and  though  the  eye  would 

glow, 

Yet  the  brow  wore  an  air  of  perfect  rest ; 
Cheerful,  content,  with  calm  though  strong  control 
He  shut  the  temple-portals  of  his  soul. 

XXII 

And  when  too  restlessly  the  mighty  throng 
Of  fancies  woke  within  his  teeming  mind, 

All  silently  they  formed  in  glorious  song, 
And  floated  off  unheard,  and  undivined, 

Perchance  not  lost  —  with  many  a  voiceless  prayer 

They  reached  the  sky,  and  found  some  record  there. 

XXIII 

Softly  and  swiftly  sped  the  quiet  days ; 

The  thoughtful  boy  has  blossomed  into  youth, 
And  still  no  maiden  would  have  feared  his  gaze, 

And  still  his  brow  was  noble  with  the  truth  : 
Yet,  though  he  masks  the  pain  with  pious  art, 
There  burns  a  restless  fever  in  his  heart. 

XXIV 

A  childish  dream  is  now  a  deathless  need 

Which  drives  him  to  far  hills  and  distant  wilds ; 

The  solemn  faith  and  fervor  of  his  creed 
Bold  as  a  martyr's,  simple  as  a  child's ; 

The  eagle  knew  him  as  she  knew  the  blast, 

And  the  deer  did  not  flee  him  as  he  passed. 


A  VISION   OF  POESY  81 

xxv 

But  gentle  even  in  his  wildest  mood, 

Always,  and  most,  he  loved  the  bluest  weather, 

And  in  some  soft  and  sunny  solitude 

Couched  like  a  milder  sunshine  on  the  heather, 

He  communed  with  the  winds,  and  with  the  birds, 

As  if  they  might  have  answered  him  in  words. 

XXVI 

Deep  buried  in  the  forest  was  a  nook 
Remote  and  quiet  as  its  quiet  skies ; 

He  knew  it,  sought  it,  loved  it  as  a  book 

Full  of  his  own  sweet  thoughts  and  memories ; 

Dark  oaks  and  fluted  chestnuts  gathering  round, 

Pillared  and  greenly  domed  a  sloping  mound. 

XXVII 

Whereof  —  white,  purple,  azure,  golden,  red, 
Confused  like  hues  of  sunset  —  the  wild  flowers 

Wove  a  rich  dais  ;  through  crosslights  overhead 
Glanced    the   clear   sunshine,   fell    the    fruitful 
showers, 

And  here  the  shyest  bird  would  fold  her  wings ; 

Here  fled  the  fairest  and  the  gentlest  things. 

XXVIII 

Thither,  one  night  of  mist  and  moonlight,  came 
The  youth,  with  nothing  deeper  in  his  thoughts 


82     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

Than  to  behold  beneath  the  silver  flame 

New  aspects  of  his  fair  and  favorite  spot ; 
A  single  ray  attained  the  ground,  and  shed 
Just  light  enough  to  guide  the  wanderer's  tread. 

XXIX 

And  high  and  hushed  arose  the  stately  trees, 
Yet  shut  within  themselves,  like  dungeons,  where 

Lay  fettered  all  the  secrets  of  the  breeze  ; 
Silent,  but  not  as  slumbering,  all  things  there 

Wore  to  the  youth's  aroused  imagination 

An  air  of  deep  and  solemn  expectation. 

XXX 

"  Hath  Heaven,"  the  youth  exclaimed,  "  a  sweeter 
spot, 

Or  Earth  another  like  it  ?  —  yet  even  here 
The  old  mystery  dwells !  and  though  I  read  it  not, 

Here  most  I  hope  —  it  is,  or  seems  so  near ; 
So  many  hints  come  to  me,  but,  alas ! 
I  cannot  grasp  the  shadows  as  they  pass. 

XXXI 

"  Here,  from  the  very  turf  beneath  me,  I 

Catch,  but  just   catch,   I  know  not  what  faint 
sound, 

And  darkly  guess  that  from  yon  silent  sky 
Float  starry  emanations  to  the  ground ; 

These  ears  are  deaf,  these  human  eyes  are  blind, 

I  want  a  purer  heart,  a  subtler  mind. 


A  VISION   OF   POESY  83 

XXXII 

"  Sometimes  —  could  it  be  fancy  ?  —  I  have  felt 
The  presence  of  a  spirit  who  might  speak  j 

As  down  in  lowly  reverence  I  knelt, 

Its  very  breath  hath  kissed  my  burning  cheek; 

But  I  in  vain  have  hushed  my  own  to  hear 

A  wing  or  whisper  stir  the  silent  air  !  " 

XXXIII 

Is  not  the  breeze  articulate  ?     Hark  !     Oh,  hark ! 

A  distant  murmur,  like  a  voice  of  floods ; 
And  onward  sweeping  slowly  through  the  dark, 

Bursts  like  a  call  the  night-wind  from  the  woods ! 
Low  bow  the  flowers,  the  trees  fling  loose  their 

dreams, 

And  through  the  waving  roof  a  fresher  moonlight 
streams. 

XXXIV 

"  Mortal !  "  —  the   word   crept  slowly  round   the 

place 

As  if  that  wind  had  breathed  it !     From  no  star 
Streams  that  soft  lustre  on  the  dreamer's  face. 

Again  a  hushing  calm  !  while  faint  and  far 
The    breeze    goes    calling    onward    through    the 

night. 

Dear  God !  what  vision  chains  that  wide-strained 
sight  ? 


84     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

XXXV 

Over  the  grass  and  flowers,  and  up  the  slope 
Glides   a  white  cloud  of  mist,   self-moved  and 
slow, 

That,  pausing  at  the  hillock's  moonlit  cope, 
Swayed  like  a  flame  of  silver ;  from  below 

The  breathless  youth  with  beating  heart  beholds 

A  mystic  motion  in  its  argent  folds. 

xxxvi 

Yet  his  young  soul  is  bold,  and  hope  grows  warm, 
As   flashing    through    that   cloud    of    shadowy 
crape, 

With  sweep  of  robes,  and  then  a  gleaming  arm, 
Slowly  developing,  at  last  took  shape 

A  face  and  form  unutterably  bright, 

That  cast  a  golden  glamour  on  the  night. 

XXXVII 

But  for  the  glory  round  it  it  would  seem 

Almost  a  mortal  maiden  ;  and  the  boy, 
Unto  whom  love  was  yet  an  innocent  dream, 

Shivered  and  crimsoned  with  an  unknown  joy ; 
As   to  the  young   Spring  bounds   the  passionate 

South, 

He  could  have  clasped  and  kissed  her  mouth  to 
mouth. 


A  VISION   OF   POESY  85 

XXXVIII 

Yet   something  checked,   that  was   and   was   not 
dread, 

Till  in  a  low  sweet  voice  the  maiden  spake ; 
She  was  the  Fairy  of  his  dreams,  she  said, 

And  loved  him  simply  for  his  human  sake ; 
And  that  in  heaven,  wherefrom  she  took  her  birth, 
They  called  her  Poesy,  the  angel  of  the  earth. 

xxxix 
"  And  ever  since  that  immemorial  hour, 

When  the  glad  morning-stars  together  sung, 
My  task  hath  been,  beneath  a  mightier  Power, 

To  keep  the  world  forever  fresh  and  young ; 
I  give  it  not  its  fruitage  and  its  green, 
But  clothe  it  with  a  glory  all  unseen. 

XL 

"  I  sow  the  germ  which  buds  in  human  art, 
And,  with  my  sister,  Science,  I  explore 

With  light  the  dark  recesses  of  the  heart, 

And  nerve  the  will,  and  teach  the  wish  to  soar ; 

I  touch  with  grace  the  body's  meanest  clay, 

While  noble  souls  are  nobler  for  my  sway. 

XLI 

"  Before  my  power  the  kings  of  earth  have  bowed ; 
I  am  the  voice  of  Freedom,  and  the  sword 


86  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Leaps  from  its  scabbard  when  I  call  aloud ; 

Wherever  life  in  sacrifice  is  poured, 
Wherever  martyrs  die  or  patriots  bleed, 
I  weave  the  chaplet  and  award  the  meed. 

XLII 

"  Where  Passion  stoops,  or  strays,  is  cold,  or  dead, 

I  lift  from  error,  or  to  action  thrill ! 
Or  if  it  rage  too  madly  in  its  bed, 

The  tempest  hushes  at  my  '  Peace  !  be  still ! ' 
I  know  how  far  its  tides  should  sink  or  swell, 
And  they  obey  my  sceptre  and  my  spell. 

XLIII 

"  All  lovely  things,  and  gentle  —  the  sweet  laugh 
Of  children,    Girlhood's  kiss,  and  Friendship's 

clasp, 

The  boy  that  sporteth  with  the  old  man's  staff, 
The  baby,  and  the  breast  its  fingers  grasp  — 
All  that  exalts  the  grounds  of  happiness, 
All  griefs  that  hallow,  and  all  joys  that  bless, 

XLIV 

"  To  me  are  sacred ;  at  my  holy  shrine 

Love  breathes  its  latest  dreams,  its  earliest  hints  \ 

I  turn  life's  tasteless  waters  into  wine, 

And  flush  them  through  and  through  with  purple 
tints. 

Wherever  Earth  is  fair,  and  Heaven  looks  down, 

I  rear  my  altars,  and  I  wear  my  crown. 


A  VISION   OF   POESY  87 

XLV 

"  I  am  the  unseen  spirit  thou  hast  sought, 
I  woke  those  shadowy  questionings  that  vex 

Thy  young  mind,  lost  in  its  own  cloud  of  thought, 
And  rouse  the  soul  they  trouble  and  perplex ; 

I  rilled  thy  days  with  visions,  and  thy  nights 

Blessed  with  all  sweetest  sounds  and  fairy  sights. 

XLVI 
"  Not  here,  not  in  this  world,  may  I  disclose 

The  mysteries  in  which  this  life  is  hearsed ; 
Some  doubts  there  be  that,  with  some  earthly  woes, 

By  Death  alone  shall  wholly  be  dispersed ; 
Yet  on  those  very  doubts  from  this  low  sod 
Thy  soul  shall  pass  beyond  the  stars  to  God. 

XLVI  I 

"  And  so  to  knowledge,  climbing  grade  by  grade, 
Thou  shalt  attain  whatever  mortals  can, 

And  what  thou  mayst  discover  by  my  aid 
Thou  shalt  translate  unto  thy  brother  man ; 

And  men  shall  bless  the  power  that  flings  a  ray 

Into  their  night  from  thy  diviner  day. 

XLVIII 
"  For,  from  thy  lofty  height,  thy  words  shall  fall 

Upon  their  spirits  like  bright  cataracts 
That  front  a  sunrise ;  thou  shalt  hear  them  call 
QAmid  their  endless  waste  of  arid  facts, 


88     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

As  wearily  they  plod  their  way  along, 
Upon  the  rhythmic  zephyrs  of  thy  song. 

XLIX 

"  All  this  is  in  thy  reach,  but  much  depends 
Upon  thyself  —  thy  future  I  await ; 

I  give  the  genius,  point  the  proper  ends, 
But  the  true  bard  is  his  own  only  Fate ; 

Into  thy  soul  my  soul  have  I  infused ; 

Take  care  thy  lofty  powers  be  wisely  used. 


"  The  Poet  owes  a  high  and  holy  debt, 
Which,  if  he  feel,  he  craves  not  to  be  heard 

For  the  poor  boon  of  praise,  or  place,  nor  yet 
Does  the  mere  joy  of  song,  as  with  the  bird 

Of  many  voices,  prompt  the  choral  lay 

That  cheers  that  gentle  pilgrim  on  his  way. 

LI 

"  Nor  may  he  always  sweep  the  passionate  lyre, 
Which  is  his  heart,  only  for  such  relief 

As  an  impatient  spirit  may  desire, 

Lest,  from  the  grave  which  hides  a  private  grief, 

The  spells  of  song  call  up  some  pallid  wraith 

To  blast  or  ban  a  mortal  hope  or  faith. 

LII 
"  Yet  over  his  deep  soul,  with  all  its  crowd 

Of  varying  hopes  and  fears,  he  still  must  brood ; 


A  VISION   OF   POESY  89 

As  from  its  azure  height  a  tranquil  cloud 

Watches  its  own  bright  changes  in  the  flood ; 
Self -reading,  not  self-loving  —  they  are  twain  — 
And  sounding,  while  he  mourns,  the  depths  of  pain. 

LIII 

"  Thus  shall  his  songs  attain  the  common  breast, 
Dyed  in  his  own  life's  blood,  the  sign  and  seal, 

Even  as  the  thorns  which  are  the  martyr's  crest, 
That  do  attest  his  office,  and  appeal 

Unto  the  universal  human  heart 

In  sanction  of  his  mission  and  his  art. 

LIV 

"  Much  yet  remains  unsaid  —  pure  must  he  be ; 

Oh,  blessed  are  the  pure  !  for  they  shall  hear 
Where  others  hear  not,  see  where  others  see 

With   a   dazed  vision :   who   have   drawn   most 

near 

My  shrine,  have  ever  brought  a  spirit  cased 
And  mailed  in  a  body  clean  and  chaste. 

LV 

"  The  Poet  to  the  whole  wide  world  belongs, 
Even  as  the  teacher  is  the  child's  —  I  said 

No  selfish  aim  should  ever  mar  his  songs, 
But  self  wears  many  guises  ;  men  may  wed 

Self  in  another,  and  the  soul  may  be 

Self  to  its  centre,  all  unconsciously. 


90  POEMS    OF   HENRY    TIMROD 

LVI 

"  And  therefore  must  the  Poet  watch,  lest  he, 
In  the  dark  struggle  of  this  life,  should  take 

Stains  which  he  might  not  notice ;  he  must  flee 
Falsehood,  however  winsome,  and  forsake 

All  for  the  Truth,  assured  that  Truth  alone 

Is  Beauty,  and  can  make  him  all  my  own. 

LVII 
"  And  he  must  be  as  armed  warrior  strong, 

And  he  must  be  as  gentle  as  a  girl, 
And  he  must  front,  and  sometimes  suffer  wrong, 

With  brow  unbent,  and  lip  untaught  to  curl ; 
For  wrath,  and  scorn,  and  pride,  however  just, 
Fill  the  clear  spirit's  eyes  with  earthly  dust." 

The  story  came  to  me  —  it  recks  not  whence  — 
In  fragments.     Oh  !  if  I  could  tell  it  all, 
If  human  speech  indeed  could  tell  it  all, 
'T  were  not  a  whit  less  wondrous,  than  if  I 
Should  find,  untouched  in  leaf  and  stem,  and  bright, 
As  when  it  bloomed  three  thousand  years  ago, 
On  some  Idalian  slope,  a  perfect  rose. 
Alas  !  a  leaf  or  two,  and  they  perchance 
Scarce  worth  the  hiving,  one  or  two  dead  leaves 
Are  the  sole  harvest  of  a  summer's  toil. 
There  was  a  moment,  ne'er  to  be  recalled, 
When  to  the  Poet's  hope  within  my  heart, 


A  VISION    OF   POESY  91 

They  wore  a  tint  like  life's,  but  in  my  hand, 
I  know  not  why,  they  withered.     I  have  heard 
Somewhere,  of  some  dead  monarch,  from  the  tomb, 
Where  he  had  slept  a  century  and  more, 
Brought  forth,  that  when  the  coffin  was  laid  bare, 
Albeit  the  body  in  its  mouldering  robes 
Was  fleshless,  yet  one  feature  still  remained 
Perfect,  or  perfect  seemed  at  least ;  the  eyes 
Gleamed  for  a  second  on  the  startled  crowd, 
And  then  went  out  in  ashes.     Even  thus 
The  story,  when  I  drew  it  from  the  grave 
Where  it  had  lain  so  long,  did  seem,  I  thought, 
Not  wholly  lifeless ;  but  even  while  I  gazed 
To  fix  its  features  on  my  heart,  and  called 
The  world  to  wonder  with  me,  lo  !  it  proved 
I  looked  upon  a  corpse ! 

What  further  fell 

In  that  lone  forest  nook,  how  much  was  taught, 
How  much  was  only  hinted,  what  the  youth 
Promised,  if  promise  were  required,  to  do 
Or  strive  for,  what  the  gifts  he  bore  away  — 
Or  added  powers  or  blessings  —  how  at  last, 
The  vision  ended  and  he  sought  his  home, 
How  lived   there,   and  how  long,  and   when   he 

passed 

Into  the  busy  world  to  seek  his  fate, 
I  know  not,  and  if  any  ever  knew, 
The  tale  hath  perished  from  the  earth ;  for  here 
The  slender  thread  on  which  my  song  is  strung 


92     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

Breaks  off,  and  many  after  years  of  life 

Are  lost  to  sight,  the  life  to  reappear 

Only  towards  its  close  —  as  of  a  dream 

We  catch  the  end  and  opening,  but  forget 

That  which  had  joined  them  in  the  dreaming  brain ; 

Or  as  a  mountain  with  a  belt  of  mist 

That  shows  his  base,  and  far  above,  a  peak 

With  a  blue  plume  of  pines. 

But  turn  the  page 
And  read  the  only  hints  that  yet  remain. 


PART  II 

i 

It  is  not  winter  yet,  but  that  sweet  time 

In  autumn  when  the  first  cool  days  are  past ; 

A  week  ago,  the  leaves  were  hoar  with  rime, 

And  some  have  dropped  before  the  North  wind's 
blast ; 

But  the  mild  hours  are  back,  and  at  mid-noon, 

The  day  hath  all  the  genial  warmth  of  June. 

ii 
What  slender  form  lies  stretched  along  the  mound  ? 

Can  it  be  his,  the  Wanderer's,  with  that  brow 
Gray  in  its  prime,  those  eyes  that  wander  round 

Listlessly,  with  a  jaded  glance  that  now 
Seems  to  see  nothing  where  it  rests,  and  then 
Pores  on  each  trivial  object  in  its  ken  ? 


A  VISION   OF   POESY  93 

in 

See  how  a  gentle  maid's  wan  fingers  clasp 
The  last  fond  love-notes  of  some  faithless  hand ; 

Thus,  with  a  transient  interest,  his  weak  grasp 
Holds  a  few  leaves  as  when  of  old  he  scanned 

The  meaning  in  their  gold  and  crimson  streaks  j 

But  the  sweet   dream   has   vanished!    hush!    he 
speaks ! 

IV 

"  Once  more,  once  more,  after  long  pain  and  toil, 
And  yet  not  long,  if  I  should  count  by  years, 

I  breathe  my  native  air,  and  tread  the  soil 
I  trod  in  childhood  ;  if  I  shed  no  tears, 

No  happy  tears,  't  is  that  their  fount  is  dry, 

And  joy  that  cannot  weep  must  sigh,  must  sigh. 


"  These  leaves,  my  boyish  books  in  days  of  yore, 
When,  as  the  weeks  sped  by,  I  seemed  to  stand 

Ever  upon  the  brink  of  some  wild  lore  — 

These  leaves  shall  make  my  bed,  and  —  for  the 
hand 

Of  God  is  on  me,  chilling  brain  and  breath  — 

I  shall  not  ask  a  softer  couch  in  death. 

VI 

"  Here  was  it  that  I  saw,  or  dreamed  I  saw, 
I  know  not  which,  that  shape  of  love  and  light. 


94  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Spirit  of  Song !  have  I  not  owned  thy  law  ? 

Have  I  not  taught,  or  striven  to  teach  the  right, 
And  kept  my  heart  as  clean,  my  life  as  sweet, 
As  mortals  may,  when  mortals  mortals  meet  ? 

VII 

"Thou  know'st  how   I  went    forth,   my  youthful 
breast 

On  fire  with  thee,  amid  the  paths  of  men ; 
Once  in  my  wanderings,  my  lone  footsteps  pressed 

A  mountain  forest ;  in  a  sombre  glen, 
Down  which  its  thundrous  boom  a  cataract  flung, 
A  little  bird,  unheeded,  built  and  sung. 

VIII 

"  So  fell  my  voice  amid  the  whirl  and  rush 

Of  human  passions  ;  if  unto  my  art 
Sorrow  hath  sometimes  owed  a  gentler  gush, 

I  know  it  not ;  if  any  Poet-heart 
Hath  kindled  at  my  songs  its  light  divine, 
I  know  it  not ;  no  ray  came  back  to  mine. 

IX 

"  Alone  in  crowds,  once  more  I  sought  to  make 
Of  senseless  things  my  friends  ;  the  clouds  that 
burn 

Above  the  sunset,  and  the  flowers  that  shake 
Their  odors  in  the  wind  —  these  would  not  turn 

Their  faces  from  me  ;  far  from  cities,  I 

Forgot  the  scornful  world  that  passed  me  by. 


A  VISION   OF   POESY  95 

x 

"Yet  even  the  world's  cold  slights  I  might  have 

borne, 

Nor  fled,  though  sorrowing  j  but  I  shrank  at  last 
When  one  sweet  face,  too  sweet,  I  thought,  for 

scorn, 

Looked  scornfully  upon  me ;  then  I  passed 
From   all  that  youth  had  dreamed  or  manhood 

planned, 
Into  the  self  that  none  would  understand. 

XI 

"  She  was  —  I  never  wronged  her  womanhood 
By  crowning  it  with  praises  not  her  own  — 

She  was  all  earth's,  and  earth's,  too,  in  that  mood 
When  she  brings  forth  her  fairest ;  I  atone 

Now,  in  this  fading  brow  and  failing  frame, 

That  such  a  soul  such  soul  as  mine  could  tame. 

XII 

"  Clay  to  its  kindred  clay  !     I  loved,  in  sooth, 
Too  deeply  and  too  purely  to  be  blest ; 

With  something  more  of  lust  and  less  of  truth 
She  would  have  sunk  all  blushes  on  my  breast  j 

And  —  but  I  must  not  blame  her  —  in  my  ear 

Death  whispers  !  and  the  end,  thank  God  !  draws 
near ! " 


96  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

XIII 

Hist !  on  the  perfect  silence  of  the  place 
Comes  and  dies  off  a  sound  like  far-off  rain 

With  voices  mingled  ;  on  the  Poet's  face 

A  shadow,  where  no  shadow  should  have  lain, 

Falls  the  next  moment :  nothing  meets  his  sight, 

Yet  something  moves  betwixt  him  and  the  light. 

XIV 

And  a  voice  murmurs,  "  Wonder  not,  but  hear ! 

ME  to  behold  again  thou  need'st  not  seek ; 
Yet  by  the  dim-felt  influence  on  the  air, 

And  by  the  mystic  shadow  on  thy  cheek, 
Know,  though  thou  mayst  not  touch  with  fleshly 

hands, 
The  genius  of  thy  life  beside  thee  stands ! 

xv 

"  Unto  no  fault,  O  weary-hearted  one  ! 

Unto  no  fault  of  man's  thou  ow'st  thy  fate  ; 
All  human  hearts  that  beat  this  earth  upon, 

All  human  thoughts  and  human  passions  wait 
Upon  the  genuine  bard,  to  him  belong, 
And  help  in  their  own  way  the  Poet's  song. 

XVI 

"  How  blame  the  world  ?  for  the  world  hast  thou 

wrought  ? 
Or  wast  thou  but  as  one  who  aims  to  fling 


A  VISION   OF   POESY  97 

The  weight  of  some  unutterable  thought 

Down  like  a  burden  ?  what  from  questioning 
Too  subtly  thy  own  spirit,  and  to  speech 
But  half  subduing  themes  beyond  the  reach 

XVII 

"  Of  mortal  reason  ;  what  from  living  much 
In  that  dark  world  of  shadows,  where  the  soul 

Wanders  bewildered,  striving  still  to  clutch 
Yet  never  clutching  once,  a  shadowy  goal, 

Which  always  flies,  and  while  it  flies  seems  near, 

Thy  songs  were  riddles  hard  to  mortal  ear. 

XVIII 

"  This  was  the  hidden  selfishness  that  marred 
Thy  teachings  ever  j  this  the  false  key-note 

That  on  such  souls  as  might  have  loved  thee  jarred 
Like  an  unearthly  language  ;  thou  didst  float 

On  a  strange  water  ;  those  who  stood  on  land 

Gazed,  but  they  could  not  leave  their  beaten  strand. 

XIX 

"  Your  elements  were  different,  and  apart  — 
The  world's  and  thine  —  and  even  in  those  in- 
tense 

And  watchful  broodings  o'er  thy  inmost  heart, 
It  was  thy  own  peculiar  difference 

That  thou  didst  seek ;  nor  didst  thou  care  to  find 

Aught  that  would  bring  thee  nearer  to  thy  kind. 


98  POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 

xx 

"  Not  thus  the  Poet,  who  in  blood  and  brain 
Would  represent  his  race  and  speak  for  all, 

Weaves  the  bright  woof  of  that  impassioned  strain 
Which  drapes,  as  if  for  some  high  festival . 

Of  pure  delights  —  whence  few  of  human  birth 

May  rightly  be  shut  out  —  the  common  earth. 

XXI 

"  As  the  same  law  that  moulds  a  planet,  rounds 
A  drop  of  dew,  so  the  great  Poet  spheres 

Worlds  in  himself ;  no  selfish  limit  bounds 
A  sympathy  that  folds  all  characters, 

All  ranks,  all  passions,  and  all  life  almost 

In  its  wide  circle.     Like  some  noble  host, 

XXII 

"  He  spreads  the  riches  of  his  soul,  and  bids 
Partake  who  will.     Age  has  its  saws  of  truth, 

And  love  is  for  the  maiden's  drooping  lids, 
And  words  of  passion  for  the  earnest  youth ; 

Wisdom  for  all ;  and  when  it  seeks  relief, 

Tears,  and  their  solace  for  the  heart  of  grief. 

XXIII 

"  Nor  less  on  him  than  thee  the  mysteries 
Within  him  and  about  him  ever  weigh  — 

The  meanings  in  the  stars,  and  in  the  breeze, 
All  the  weird  wonders  of  the  common  day, 


A  VISION   OF   POESY  99 

Truths  that  the  merest  point  removes  from  reach, 
And  thoughts  that  pause  upon  the  brink  of  speech ; 

XXIV 

"  But  on  the  surface  of  his  song  these  lie 
As  shadows,  not  as  darkness ;  and  alway, 

Even  though  it  breathe  the  secrets  of  the  sky, 
There  is  a  human  purpose  in  the  lay ; 

Thus  some  tall  fir  that  whispers  to  the  stars 

Shields  at  its  base  a  cotter's  lattice-bars. 

xxv 

"  Even  such  my  Poet !  for  thou  still  art  mine ! 
Thou  mightst  have  been,  and  now  have  calmly 

died, 
A  priest,  and  not  a  victim  at  the  shrine ; 

Alas  !  yet  was  it  all  thy  fault  ?     I  chide, 
Perchance,  myself  within  thee,  and  the  fate 
To  which  thy  power  was  solely  consecrate. 

XXVI 

"  Thy  life  hath  not  been  wholly  without  use, 
Albeit  that  use  is  partly  hidden  now ; 

In  thy  unmingled  scorn  of  any  truce 
With  this  world's  specious  falsehoods,  often  thou 

Hast  uttered,  through  some  all  unworldly  song, 

Truths  that  for  man  might  else  have  slumbered 
long. 


loo          POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

XXVII 

"  And  these  not  always  vainly  on  the  crowd 

Have  fallen  ;  some  are  cherished  now,  and  some, 

In  mystic  phrases  wrapped  as  in  a  shroud, 
Wait  the  diviner,  who  as  yet  is  dumb 

Upon  the  breast  of  God  —  the  gate  of  birth 

Closed  on  a  dreamless  ignorance  of  earth. 

XXVIII 

"  And  therefore,  though  thy  name  shall  pass  away, 
Even  as  a  cloud  that  hath  wept  all  its  showers, 

Yet  as  that  cloud  shall  live  again  one  day 
In  the  glad  grass,  and  in  the  happy  flowers, 

So   in  thy   thoughts,   though   clothed   in   sweeter 
rhymes, 

Thy  life  shall  bear  its  flowers  in  future  times." 


THE   PAST 

TODAY'S  most  trivial  act  may  hold  the  seed 
Of  future  fruitfulness,  or  future  dearth ; 

Oh,  cherish  always  every  word  and  deed ! 
The  simplest  record  of  thyself  hath  worth. 

If  thou  hast  ever  slighted  one  old  thought, 
Beware  lest  Grief  enforce  the  truth  at  last ; 

The  time  must  come  wherein  thou  shalt  be  taught 
The  value  and  the  beauty  of  the  Past. 


DREAMS  101 

Not  merely  as  a  warner  and  a  guide, 

"  A  voice  behind  thee,"  sounding  to  the  strife ; 

But  something  never  to  be  put  aside, 
A  part  and  parcel  of  thy  present  life. 

Not  as  a  distant  and  a  darkened  sky, 

Through  which  the  stars  peep,  and  the  moon- 
beams glow ; 
But  a  surrounding  atmosphere,  whereby 

We  live  and  breathe,  sustained  in  pain  and  woe. 

A  shadowy  land,  where  joy  and  sorrow  kiss, 
Each  still  to  each  corrective  and  relief, 

Where  dim  delights  are  brightened  into  bliss, 
And  nothing  wholly  perishes  but  Grief. 

Ah,  me  !  —  not  dies  — no  more  than  spirit  dies ; 

But  in  a  change  like  death  is  clothed  with  wings  ; 
A  serious  angel,  with  entranced  eyes, 

Looking  to  far-off  and  celestial  things. 


DREAMS 

WHO  first  said  "  false  as  dreams  "  ?     Not  one  who 
saw 

Into  the  wild  and  wondrous  world  they  sway ; 
No  thinker  who  hath  read  their  mystic  law ; 

No  Poet  who  hath  weaved  them  in  his  lay. 


102  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Else  had  he  known  that  through  the  human  breast 
Cross  and  recross  a  thousand  fleeting  gleams, 

That,  passed  unnoticed  in  the  day's  unrest, 

Come  out  at  night,  like  stars,  in  shining  dreams  ; 

That  minds  too  busy  or  too  dull  to  mark 
The  dim  suggestion  of  the  noisier  hours, 

By  dreams  in  the  deep  silence  of  the  dark, 

Are  roused  at  midnight  with  their  folded  powers. 

Like  that  old  fount  beneath  Dodona's  oaks, 
That,  dry  and  voiceless  in  the  garish  noon, 

When  the  calm  night  arose  with  modest  looks, 
Caught  with  full  wave  the  sparkle  of  the  moon. 

If,  now  and  then,  a  ghastly  shape  glide  in, 
And  fright  us  with  its  horrid  gloom  or  glee, 

It  is  the  ghost  of  some  forgotten  sin 
We  failed  to  exorcise  on  bended  knee. 

And  that  sweet  face  which  only  yesternight 
Came  to  thy  solace,  dreamer  (didst  thou  read 

The  blessing  in  its  eyes  of  tearful  light  ?), 
Was  but  the  spirit  of  some  gentle  deed. 

Each  has  its  lesson ;  for  our  dreams  in  sooth, 
Come  they  in  shape  of  demons,  gods,  or  elves, 

Are  allegories  with  deep  hearts  of  truth 
That  tell  us  solemn  secrets  of  ourselves. 


THE   ARCTIC   VOYAGER  103 


THE   ARCTIC   VOYAGER 

SHALL  I  desist,  twice  baffled  ?     Once  by  land, 
And  once  by  sea,  I  fought  and  strove  with  storms, 
All  shades  of  danger,  tides,  and  weary  calms ; 
Head-currents,  cold  and  famine,  savage  beasts, 
And  men  more  savage ;  all  the  while  my  face 
Looked    northward  toward    the    pole;    if   mortal 

strength 

Could  have  sustained  me,  I  had  never  turned 
Till  I  had  seen  the  star  which  never  sets 
Freeze  in  the  Arctic  zenith.     That  I  failed 
To  solve  the  mysteries  of  the  ice-bound  world, 
Was  not  because  I  faltered  in  the  quest. 
Witness  those  pathless  forests  which  conceal 
The  bones  of  perished  comrades,  that  long  march, 
Blood-tracked  o'er  flint  and  snow,  and  one  dread 

night 

By  Athabasca,  when  a  cherished  life 
Flowed  to  give  life  to  others.    This,  and  worse, 
I  suffered  —  let  it  pass  —  it  has  not  tamed 
My  spirit  nor  the  faith  which  was  my  strength. 
Despite  of  waning  years,  despite  the  world 
Which  doubts,  the  few  who  dare,  I  purpose  now  — 
A  purpose  long  and  thoughtfully  resolved, 
Through  all  its  grounds  of  reasonable  hope  — 
To  seek  beyond  the  ice  which  guards  the  Pole, 
A  sea  of  open  water ;  for  I  hold, 
10 


104  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Not  without  proofs,  that  such  a  sea  exists, 

And  may  be  reached,  though  since  this  earth  was 

made 

No  keel  hath  ploughed  it,  and  to  mortal  ear 
No   wind   hath   told   its   secrets  ....  With   this 

tide 

I  sail ;  if  all  be  well,  this  very  moon 
Shall  see  my  ship  beyond  the  southern  cape 
Of  Greenland,  and  far  up  the  bay  through  which, 
With  diamond  spire  and  gorgeous  pinnacle, 
The  fleets  of  winter  pass  to  warmer  seas. 
Whether,  my  hardy  shipmates  !  we  shall  reach 
Our  bourne,  and  come  with  tales  of  wonder  back, 
Or  whether  we  shall  lose  the  precious  time, 
Locked  in  thick  ice,  or  whether  some  strange  fate 
Shall  end  us  all,  I  know  not ;  but  I  know 
A  lofty  hope,  if  earnestly  pursued, 
Is  its  own  crown,  and  never  in  this  life 
Is  labor  wholly  fruitless.     In  this  faith 
I  shall  not  count  the  chances  —  sure  that  all 
A  prudent  foresight  asks  we  shall  not  want, 
And  all  that  bold  and  patient  hearts  can  do 
Ye  will  not  leave  undone.     The  rest  is  God's ! 


DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT  105 


DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT 

LET  the  boy  have  his  will !  I  tell  thee,  brother, 
We  treat  these  little  ones  too  much  like  flowers, 
Training  them,  in  blind  selfishness,  to  deck 
Sticks  of  our  poor  setting,  when  they  might, 
If  left  to  clamber  where  themselves  incline, 
Find  nobler  props  to  cling  to,  fitter  place, 
And  sweeter  air  to  bloom  in.     It  is  wrong  — 
Thou  striv'st  to  sow  with  feelings  all  thine  own, 
With  thoughts  and  hopes,  anxieties  and  aims, 
Born  of  thine  own  peculiar  self,  and  fed 
Upon  a  certain  round  of  circumstance, 
A  soul  as  different  and  distinct  from  thine 
As  love  of  goodness  is  from  love  of  glory, 
Or  noble  poesy  from  noble  prose. 
I  could  forgive  thee,  if  thou  wast  of  them 
Who  do  their  fated  parts  in  this  world's  business, 
Scarce  knowing  how  or  why  —  for  common  minds 
See  not  the  difference  'twixt  themselves  and  oth- 
ers— 
But  thou,  thou,  with  the  visions  which  thy  youth 

did  cherish 

Substantialized  upon  thy  regal  brow, 
Shouldst  boast  a  deeper  insight.     We  are  born, 
It  is  my  faith,  in  miniature  completeness, 
And  like  each  other  only  in  our  weakness. 
Even  with  our  mother's  milk  upon  our  lips, 


lo6  POEMS    OF    HENRY   TIMROD 

Our  smiles  have  different  meanings,  and  our  hands 

Press  with  degrees  of  softness  to  her  bosom. 

It  is  not  change  —  whatever  in  the  heart 

That  wears  its  semblance,  we,  in  looking  back, 

With  gratulation  or  regret,  perceive  — 

It  is  not  change  we  undergo,  but  only 

Growth  or  development.     Yes  !  what  is  childhood 

But  after  all  a  sort  of  golden  daylight, 

A  beautiful  and  blessed  wealth  of  sunshine, 

Wherein  the  powers  and  passions  of  the  soul 

Sleep  starlike  but  existent,  till  the  night 

Of  gathering  years  shall  call  the  slumbers  forth, 

And  they  rise  up  in  glory  ?     Early  grief, 

A  shadow  like  the  darkness  of  eclipse, 

Hath  sometimes  waked  them  sooner. 


THE   SUMMER   BOWER 

IT  is  a  place  whither  I  Ve  often  gone 

For  peace,  and  found  it,  secret,  hushed,  and  cool, 

A  beautiful  recess  in  neighboring  woods. 

Trees  of  the  soberest  hues,  thick-leaved  and  tall, 

Arch  it  o'erhead  and  column  it  around, 

Framing  a  covert,  natural  and  wild, 

Domelike  and  dim  ;  though  nowhere  so  enclosed 

But  that  the  gentlest  breezes  reach  the  spot 

Unwearied  and  unweakened.     Sound  is  here 

A  transient  and  unfrequent  visitor ; 


THE   SUMMER   BOWER  107 

Yet  if  the  day  be  calm,  not  often  then, 
Whilst  the  high  pines  in  one  another's  arms 
Sleep,  you  may  sometimes  with  unstartled  ear 
Catch  the  far  fall  of  voices,  how  remote 
You  know  not,  and  you  do  not  care  to  know. 
The  turf  is  soft  and  green,  but  not  a  flower 
Lights    the    recess,    save    one,    star-shaped    and 

bright  — 

I  do  not  know  its  name  —  which  here  and  there 
Gleams  like  a  sapphire  set  in  emerald. 
A  narrow  opening  in  the  branched  roof, 
A  single  one,  is  large  enough  to  show, 
With  that  half  glimpse  a  dreamer  loves  so  much, 
The  blue  air  and  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 
Thither  I  always  bent  my  idle  steps, 
When  griefs  depressed,  or  joys  disturbed  my  heart, 
And  found  the  calm  I  looked  for,  or  returned 
Strong  with  the  quiet  rapture  in  my  soul. 

But  one  day, 

One  of  those  July  days  when  winds  have  fled 
One  knows  not  whither,  I,  most  sick  in  mind 
With  thoughts  that  shall  be  nameless,  yet,  no  doubt, 
Wrong,  or  at  least  unhealthful,  since  though  dark 
With  gloom,  and  touched  with  discontent,  they  had 
No  adequate  excuse,  nor  cause,  nor  end, 
I,  with  these  thoughts,  and  on  this  summer  day, 
Entered  the  accustomed  haunt,  and  found  for  once 
No  medicinal  virtue. 

Not  a  leaf 
Stirred  with  the  whispering  welcome  which  I  sought, 


io8  POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 

But  in  a  close  and  humid  atmosphere, 

Every  fair  plant  and  implicated  bough 

Hung  lax  and  lifeless.     Something  in  the  place, 

Its  utter  stillness,  the  unusual  heat, 

And  some  more  secret  influence,  I  thought, 

Weighed  on  the  sense  like  sin.     Above  I  saw, 

Though  not  a  cloud  was  visible  in  heaven, 

The  pallid  sky  look  through  a  glazed  mist 

Like  a  blue  eye  in  death. 

The  change,  perhaps, 
Was  natural  enough  ;  my  jaundiced  sight, 
The  weather,  and  the  time  explain  it  all : 
Yet  have  I  drawn  a  lesson  from  the  spot, 
And  shrined  it  in  these  verses  for  my  heart. 
Thenceforth  those  tranquil  precincts  I  have  sought 
Not  less,  and  in  all  shades  of  various  moods ; 
But  always  shun  to  desecrate  the  spot 
By  vain  repinings,  sickly  sentiments, 
Or  inconclusive  sorrows.     Nature,  though 
Pure  as  she  was  in  Eden  when  her  breath 
Kissed  the  white  brow  of  Eve,  doth  not  refuse, 
In  her  own  way  and  with  a  just  reserve, 
To  sympathize  with  human  suffering ; 
But  for  the  pains,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Engendered  of  a  weak,  unquiet  heart, 
She  hath  no  solace ;  and  who  seeks  her  when 
These  be  the  troubles  over  which  he  moans, 
Reads  in  her  unreplying  lineaments 
Rebukes,  that,  to  the  guilty  consciousness, 
Strike  like  contempt. 


A  SOUTHERN   WINTER   NIGHT        109 


A  RHAPSODY  OF  A  SOUTHERN  WINTER 
NIGHT 

OH  !  dost  thou  flatter  falsely,  Hope  ? 
The  day  hath  scarcely  passed  that  saw  thy  birth, 
Yet  thy  white  wings  are  plumed  to  all  their  scope, 
And  hour  by  hour  thine  eyes  have  gathered  light, 

And  grown  so  large  and  bright, 
That  my  whole  future  life  unfolds  what  seems, 

Beneath  their  gentle  beams, 
A  path  that  leads  athwart  some  guiltless  earth, 
To  which  a  star  is  dropping  from  the  night ! 

Not  many  moons  ago, 
But  when  these  leafless  beds  were  all  aglow 
With  summer's  dearest  treasures,  I 
Was  reading  in  this  lonely  garden-nook ; 
A  July  noon  was  cloudless  in  the  sky, 
And  soon  I  put  my  shallow  studies  by ; 
Then,  sick  at  heart,  and  angered  by  the  book, 
Which,  in  good  sooth,  was  but  the  long-drawn  sigh 
Of  some  one  who  had  quarreled  with  his  kind, 
Vexed  at  the  very  proofs  which  I  had  sought, 
And  all  annoyed  while  all  alert  to  find 
A  plausible  likeness  of  my  own  dark  thought, 
I  cast  me  down  beneath  yon  oak's  wide  boughs, 
And,   shielding  with    both    hands   my   throbbing 
brows, 


no     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

Watched  lazily  the  shadows  of  my  brain. 

The  feeble  tide  of  peevishness  went  down, 

And  left  a  flat  dull  waste  of  dreary  pain, 

Which  seemed  to  clog  the  blood  in  every  vein ; 

The  world,  of  course,  put  on  its  darkest  frown  — 

In  all  its  realms  I  saw  no  mortal  crown 

Which   did    not   wound    or   crush    some    restless 

head; 

And  hope,  and  will,  and  motive,  all  were  dead. 
So,  passive  as  a  stone,  I  felt  too  low 
To  claim  a  kindred  with  the  humblest  flower ; 
Even  that  would  bare  its  bosom  to  a  shower, 
While  I  henceforth  would  take  no  pains  to  live, 
Nor  place  myself  where  I  might  feel  or  give 
A  single  impulse  whence  a  wish  could  grow. 
There  was  a  tulip  scarce  a  gossamer's  throw 
Beyond  that  platanus.     A  little  child, 
Most  dear  to  me,  looked  through  the  fence  and 

smiled 

A  hint  that  I  should  pluck  it  for  her  sake. 
Ah,  me !  I  trust  I  was  not  well  awake  — 

The  voice  was  very  sweet, 
Yet  a  faint  languor  kept  me  in  my  seat 
I  saw  a  pouted  lip,  a  toss,  and  heard 
Some  low  expostulating  tones,  but  stirred 
Not  even  a  leaf's  length,  till  the  pretty  fay, 
Wondering,  and  half  abashed  at  the  wild  feat, 
Climbed   the   low  pales,  and   laughed   my  gloom 

away. 


A  SOUTHERN  WINTER  NIGHT    in 

And  here  again,  but  led  by  other  powers, 

A  morning  and  a  golden  afternoon, 

These  happy  stars,  and  yonder  setting  moon, 

Have  seen  me  speed,  unreckoned  and  untasked, 

A  round  of  precious  hours. 

Oh  !  here,  where  in  that  summer  noon  I  basked, 
And  strove,  with  logic  frailer  than  the  flowers, 
To  justify  a  life  of  sensuous  rest, 
A  question  dear  as  home  or  heaven  was  asked, 
And  without  language  answered.     I  was  blest ! 
Blest  with  those  nameless  boons  too  sweet  to  trust 
Unto  the  telltale  confidence  of  song. 
Love  to  his  own  glad  self  is  sometimes  coy, 
And  even  thus  much  doth  seem  to  do  him  wrong  j 
While  in  the  fears  which  chasten  mortal  joy, 
Is  one  that  shuts  the  lips,  lest  speech  too  free, 
With  the  cold  touch  of  hard  reality, 
Should  turn  its  priceless  jewels  into  dust. 
Since  that  long  kiss  which  closed  the  morning's 

talk, 

I  have  not  strayed  beyond  this  garden  walk. 
As  yet  a  vague  delight  is  all  I  know, 
A  sense  of  joy  so  wild  't  is  almost  pain, 
And  like  a  trouble  drives  me  to  and  fro, 
And  will  not  pause  to  count  its  own  sweet  gain. 
I  am  so  happy !  that  is  all  my  thought. 
To-morrow  I  will  turn  it  round  and  round, 
And  seek  to  know  its  limits  and  its  ground. 
To-morrow  I  will  task  my  heart  to  learn 


112  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

The  duties  which  shall  spring  from  such  a  seed, 
And  where  it  must  be  sown,  and  how  be  wrought. 
But  oh  !  this  reckless  bliss  is  bliss  indeed  ! 
And  for  one  day  I  choose  to  seal  the  urn 
Wherein  is  shrined  Love's  missal  and  his  creed. 
Meantime  I  give  my  fancy  all  it  craves  ; 
Like  him  who  found  the  West  when  first  he  caught 
The  light  that  glittered  from  the  world  he  sought, 
And   furled  his  sails  till  Dawn  should  show  the 

land; 

While  in  glad  dreams  he  saw  the  ambient  waves 
Go  rippling  brightly  up  a  golden  strand. 

Hath  there  not  been  a  softer  breath  at  play 
In  the  long  woodland  aisles  than  often  sweeps 
At  this  rough  season  through  their  solemn  deeps  — 
A  gentle  Ariel  sent  by  gentle  May, 

Who  knew  it  was  the  morn 
On  which  a  hope  was  born, 
To  greet  the  flower  e'er  it  was  fully  blown, 
And  nurse  it  as  some  lily  of  her  own  ? 
And  wherefore,  save  to  grace  a  happy  day, 
Did  the  whole  West  at  blushing  sunset  glow 
With  clouds  that,  floating  up  in  bridal  snow, 
Passed  with  the  festal  eve,  rose-crowned,  away  ? 
And  now,  if  I  may  trust  my  straining  sight, 
The  heavens  appear  with  added  stars  to-night, 
And  deeper  depths,  and  more  celestial  height, 
Than  hath  been  reached  except  in  dreams  or  death. 


FLOWER-LIFE  113 

Hush,  sweetest  South !   I  love  thy  delicate  breath  ; 

But  hush  !  methought  I  felt  an  angel's  kiss  ! 

Oh  !  all  that  lives  is  happy  in  my  bliss. 

That  lonely  fir,  which  always  seems 

As  though  it  locked  dark  secrets  in  itself, 

Hideth  a  gentle  elf, 

Whose  wand  shall  send  me  soon  a  frolic  troop 
Of  rainbow  visions,  and  of  moonlit  dreams. 
Can  joy  be  weary,  that  my  eyelids  droop  ? 
To-night  I  shall  not  seek  my  curtained  nest, 

But  even  here  find  rest. 
Who  whispered   then?     And  what  are  they  that 

peep 

Betwixt  the  foliage  in  the  tree-top  there  ? 
Come,  Fairy  Shadows  !  for  the  morn  is  near, 
When  to  your  sombre  pine  ye  all  must  creep  ; 
Come,  ye  wild  pilots  of  the  darkness,  ere 
My  spirit  sinks  into  the  gulf  of  Sleep ; 
Even  now  it  circles  round  and  round  the  deep  — 

Appear!  Appear! 


FLOWER-LIFE 

I  THINK  that,  next  to  your  sweet  eyes, 
And  pleasant  books,  and  starry  skies, 

I  love  the  world  of  flowers ; 
Less  for  their  beauty  of  a  day, 
Than  for  the  tender  things  they  say, 


114  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

And  for  a  creed  I  Ve  held  alway, 
That  they  are  sentient  powers. 

It  may  be  matter  for  a  smile  — 
And  I  laugh  secretly  the  while 

I  speak  the  fancy  out  — 
But  that  they  love,  and  that  they  woo, 
And  that  they  often  marry  too, 
And  do  as  noisier  creatures  do, 

I  've  not  the  faintest  doubt. 

And  so,  I  cannot  deem  it  right 

To  take  them  from  the  glad  sunlight, 

As  I  have  sometimes  dared ; 
Though  not  without  an  anxious  sigh 
Lest  this  should  break  some  gentle  tie, 
Some  covenant  of  friendship,  I 

Had  better  far  have  spared. 

And  when,  in  wild  or  thoughtless  hours, 
My  hand  hath  crushed  the  tiniest  flowers, 

I  ne'er  could  shut  from  sight 
The  corpses  of  the  tender  things, 
With  other  drear  imaginings, 
And  little  angel-flowers  with  wings 

Would  haunt  me  through  the  night. 

Oh  !  say  you,  friend,  the  creed  is  fraught 
With  sad,  and  even  with  painful  thought, 
Nor  could  you  bear  to  know 


A   SUMMER   SHOWER  115 

That  such  capacities  belong 
To  creatures  helpless  against  wrong, 
At  once  too  weak  to  fly  the  strong 
Or  front  the  feeblest  foe  ? 

So  be  it  always,  then,  with  you ; 
So  be  it  —  whether  false  or  true  — 

I  press  my  faith  on  none ; 
If  other  fancies  please  you  more, 
The  flowers  shall  blossom  as  before, 
Dear  as  the  Sibyl-leaves  of  yore, 

But  senseless,  every  one. 

Yet,  though  I  give  you  no  reply, 
It  were  not  hard  to  justify 

My  creed  to  partial  ears  ; 
But,  conscious  of  the  cruel  part, 
My  rhymes  would  flow  with  faltering  art, 
I  could  not  plead  against  your  heart, 

Nor  reason  with  your  tears. 


A   SUMMER   SHOWER 

WELCOME,  rain  or  tempest 

From  yon  airy  powers, 
We  have  languished  for  them 

Many  sultry  hours, 

And  earth  is  sick  and  wan,  and  pines  with  all  her 
flowers. 


n6     POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

What  have  they  been  doing 

In  the  burning  June  ? 
Riding  with  the  genii  ? 

Visiting  the  moon  ? 
Or  sleeping  on  the  ice  amid  an  arctic  noon  ? 

Bring  they  with  them  jewels 

From  the  sunset  lands  ? 
What  are  these  they  scatter 

With  such  lavish  hands  ? 
There  are  no  brighter  gems  in  Raolconda's  sands. 

Pattering  on  the  gravel, 

Dropping  from  the  eaves, 
Glancing  in  the  grass,  and 

Tinkling  on  the  leaves, 

They  flash  the  liquid  pearls  as  flung  from  fairy 
sieves. 

Meanwhile,  unreluctant, 

Earth  like  Danae  lies ; 
Listen  !  is  it  fancy, 

That  beneath  us  sighs, 
As  that  warm  lap  receives  the  largesse  of  the  skies  ? 

Jove,  it  is,  descendeth 

In  those  crystal  rills  ; 
And  this  world-wide  tremor 

Is  a  pulse  that  thrills 
To  a  god's  life  infused  through  veins  of  velvet  hills. 


BABY'S   AGE  117 

Wait,  thou  jealous  sunshine, 
Break  not  on  their  bliss ; 

Earth  will  blush  in  roses 

Many  a  day  for  this, 
And  bend  a  brighter  brow  beneath  thy  burning  kiss. 


BABY'S   AGE 

SHE  came  with  April  blooms  and  showers 

We  count  her  little  life  by  flowers. 

As  buds  the  rose  upon  her  cheek, 

We  choose  a  flower  for  every  week. 

A  week  of  hyacinths,  we  say, 

And  one  of  heart's-ease,  ushered  May ; 

And  then  because  two  wishes  met 

Upon  the  rose  and  violet  — 

I  liked  the  Beauty,  Kate,  the  Nun  — 

The  violet  and  the  rose  count  one. 

A  week  the  apple  marked  with  white ; 

A  week  the  lily  scored  in  light ; 

Red  poppies  closed  May's  happy  moon, 

And  tulips  this  blue  week  in  June. 

Here  end  as  yet  the  flowery  links ; 

To-day  begins  the  week  of  pinks ; 

But  soon  —  so  grave,  and  deep,  and  wise 

The  meaning  grows  in  Baby's, eyes, 

So  very  deep  for  Baby's  age  — 

We  think  to  date  a  week  with  sage  ! 


n8  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 


THE   MESSENGER   ROSE 

IF  you  have  seen  a  richer  glow, 

Pray,  tell  me  where  your  roses  blow ! 

Look  !  coral-leaved  !  and  —  mark  these  spots 

Red  staining  red  in  crimson  clots, 

Like  a  sweet  lip  bitten  through 

In  a  pique.     There,  where  that  hue 

Is  spilt  in  drops,  some  fairy  thing 

Hath  gashed  the  azure  of  its  wing, 

Or  thence,  perhaps,  this  very  morn, 

Plucked  the  splinters  of  a  thorn. 

Rose  !  I  make  thy  bliss  my  care  ! 
In  my  lady's  dusky  hair 
Thou  shalt  burn  this  coming  night, 
With  even  a  richer  crimson  light. 
To  requite  me  thou  shalt  tell  — 
What  I  might  not  say  as  well  — 
How  I  love  her ;  how,  in  brief, 
On  a  certain  crimson  leaf 
In  my  bosom,  is  a  debt 
Writ  in  deeper  crimson  yet. 
If  she  wonder  what  it  be  — 
But  she  '11  guess  it,  I  foresee  — 
Tell  her  that  I  date  it,  pray, 
From  the  first  sweet  night  in  May. 


ON    PRESSING   SOME   FLOWERS        119 


ON   PRESSING   SOME   FLOWERS 

So,  they  are  dead  !     Love  !  when  they  passed 
From  thee  to  me,  our  fingers  met ; 

0  withered  darlings  of  the  May ! 
I  feel  those  fairy  fingers  yet. 

And  for  the  bliss  ye  brought  me  then, 
Your  faded  forms  are  precious  things ; 

No  flowers  so  fair,  no  buds  so  sweet 

Shall  bloom  through  all  my  future  springs. 

And  so,  pale  ones !  with  hands  as  soft 
As  if  I  closed  a  baby's  eyes, 

1  '11  lay  you  in  some  favorite  book 

Made  sacred  by  a  poet's  sighs. 

Your  lips  shall  press  the  sweetest  song, 
The  sweetest,  saddest  song  I  know, 

As  ye  had  perished,  in  your  pride, 
Of  some  lone  bard's  melodious  woe. 

Oh,  Love  !  hath  love  no  holier  shrine ! 

Oh,  heart !  could  love  but  lend  the  power, 
I  'd  lay  thy  crimson  pages  bare, 

And  every  leaf  should  fold  its  flower. 


120          POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 
1866 

ADDRESSED  TO   THE   OLD   YEAR 

ART  thou  not  glad  to  close 

Thy  wearied  eyes,  O  saddest  child  of  Time, 
Eyes  which  have  looked  on  every  mortal  crime, 

And  swept  the  piteous  round  of  mortal  woes  ? 

In  dark  Plutonian  caves, 

Beneath  the  lowest  deep,  go,  hide  thy  head ; 

Or  earth  thee  where  the  blood  that  thou  hast 

shed 
May  trickle  on  thee  from  thy  Countless  graves ! 

Take  with  thee  all  thy  gloom 

And  guilt,  and  all  our  griefs,  save  what  the  breast, 
Without  a  wrong  to  some  dear  shadowy  guest, 

May  not  surrender  even  to  the  tomb. 

No  tear  shall  weep  thy  fall, 

When,  as  the  midnight  bell  doth  toll  thy  fate, 
Another  lifts  the  sceptre  of  thy  state, 

And  sits  a  monarch  in  thine  ancient  hall. 

Him  all  the  hours  attend, 

With  a  new  hope  like  morning  in  their  eyes ; 


1866— ADDRESSED  TO  THE  OLD  YEAR     121 

Him  the  fair  earth  and  him  these  radiant  skies 
Hail  as  their  sovereign,  welcome  as  their  friend. 

Him,  too,  the  nations  wait ; 

"  O  lead  us  from  the  shadow  of  the  Past," 
In  a  long  wail  like  this  December  blast, 

They  cry,  and,  crying,  grow  less  desolate. 

How  he  will  shape  his  sway 

They  ask  not  —  for  old   doubts  and   fears  will 
cling  — 

And  yet  they  trust  that,  somehow,  he  will  bring 
A  sweeter  sunshine  than  thy  mildest  day. 

Beneath  his  gentle  hand 
They  hope  to  see  no  meadow,  vale,  or  hill 
Stained  with  a  deeper  red  than  roses  spill, 

When    some    too    boisterous  zephyr  sweeps  the 
land. 

A  time  of  peaceful  prayer, 

Of  law,  love,  labor,  honest  loss  and  gain  — 
These  are  the  visions  of  the  coming  reign 

Now  floating  to  them  on  this  wintry  air. 


122  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 


STANZAS 

A  MOTHER  GAZES  UPON  HER  DAUGHTER,  ARRAYED 
FOR  AN  APPROACHING  BRIDAL.  WRITTEN  IN  IL- 
LUSTRATION OF  A  TABLEAU  VIVANT 

Is  she  not  lovely !  Oh  !  when,  long  ago, 
My  own  dead  mother  gazed  upon  my  face, 

As  I  stood  blushing  near  in  bridal  snow, 
I  had  not  half  her  beauty  and  her  grace. 

Yet  that  fond  mother  praised,  the  world  caressed, 
And  one  adored  me  — how  shall  he  who  soon 

Shall  wear  my  gentle  flower  upon  his  breast, 
Prize  to  its  utmost  worth  the  priceless  boon  ? 

Shall  he  not  gird  her,  guard  her,  make  her  rich, 
(Not  as  the  world  is  rich,  in  outward  show,) 

With  all  the  love  and  watchful  kindness  which 
A  wise  and  tender  manhood  may  bestow  ? 

Oh !  I  shall  part  from  her  with  many  tears, 
My  earthly  treasure,  pure  and  undefiled ! 

And  not  without  a  weight  of  anxious  fears 
For  the  new  future  of  my  darling  child. 

And  yet  —  for  well  I  know  that  virgin  heart  — 
No  wifely  duty  will  she  leave  undone ; 


STANZAS  123 

Nor  will  her  love  neglect  that  woman's  art 
Which  courts  and  keeps  a  love  already  won. 

In  no  light  girlish  levity  she  goes 

Unto  the  altar  where  they  wait  her  now, 

But  with  a  thoughtful,  prayerful  heart  that  knows 
The  solemn  purport  of  a  marriage  vow. 

And  she  will  keep,  with  all  her  soul's  deep  truth, 
The  lightest  pledge  which  binds  her  love  and 
life; 

And  she  will  be  —  no  less  in  age  than  youth 
My  noble  child  will  be  —  a  noble  wife. 

And  he,  her  lover  !  husband  !  what  of  him  ? 

Yes,  he  will  shield,  I  think,  my  bud  from  blight ! 
Yet  griefs  will  come  —  enough  !  my  eyes  are  dim 

With  tears  I  must  not  shed  —  at  least,  to-night. 

Bless  thee,  my  daughter  !  —  Oh  !  she  is  so  fair !  — 
Heaven    bend    above    thee    with    its    starriest 
skies  ! 

And  make  thee  truly  all  thou  dost  appear 
Unto  a  lover's  and  thy  mother's  eyes ! 


124          POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 


HYMN 

SUNG     AT     AN     ANNIVERSARY     OF     THE    ASYLUM     OF 
ORPHANS   AT   CHARLESTON 

WE  scarce,  O  God !  could  lisp  thy  name, 
When  those  who  loved  us  passed  away, 

And  left  us  but  thy  love  to  claim, 
With  but  an  infant's  strength  to  pray. 

Thou  gav'st  that  Refuge  and  that  Shrine, 
At  which  we  learn  to  know  thy  ways ; 

Father !  the  fatherless  are  thine  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  spurn  the  orphan's  praise. 

Yet  hear  a  single  cry  of  pain  ! 

Lord !  whilst  we  dream  in  quiet  beds, 
The  summer  sun  and  winter  rain 

Beat  still  on  many  homeless  heads. 

And  o'er  this  weary  earth,  we  know, 

Young  outcasts  roam  the  waste  and  wave ; 

And  little  hands  are  clasped  in  woe 
Above  some  tender  mother's  grave. 

Ye  winds !  keep  every  storm  aloof, 
And  kiss  away  the  tears  they  weep  ! 

Ye  skies,  that  make  their  only  roof, 
Look  gently  on  their  houseless  sleep  ! 


TO   A   CAPTIVE   OWL  125 

And  thou,  O  Friend  and  Father  !  find 
A  home  to  shield  their  helpless  youth ! 

Dear  hearts  to  love  —  sweet  ties  to  bind  — 
And  guide  and  guard  them  in  the  truth  ! 


TO   A   CAPTIVE  OWL 

I  SHOULD  be  dumb  before  thee,  feathered  sage ! 

And  gaze  upon  thy  phiz  with  solemn  awe, 
But  for  a  most  audacious  wish  to  gauge 

The  hoarded  wisdom  of  thy  learned  craw. 

Art  thou,  grave  bird  !  so  wondrous  wise  indeed  ? 

Speak  freely,  without  fear  of  jest  or  gibe  — 
What  is  thy  moral  and  religious  creed  ? 

And  what  the  metaphysics  of  thy  tribe  ? 

A  Poet,  curious  in  birds  and  brutes, 

I  do  not  question  thee  in  idle  play ; 
What  is  thy  station  ?     What  are  thy  pursuits  ? 

Doubtless   thou  hast  thy  pleasures  —  what  are 
they? 

Or  is  't  thy  wont  to  muse  and  mouse  at  once, 
Entice  thy  prey  with  airs  of  meditation, 

And  with  the  unvarying  habits  of  a  dunce, 
To  dine  in  solemn  depths  of  contemplation  ? 


126  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

There  may  be  much  —  the  world  at  least  says 
so  — 

Behind  that  ponderous  brow  and  thoughtful  gaze  ; 
Yet  such  a  great  philosopher  should  know, 

It  is  by  no  means  wise  to  think  always. 

And,  Bird,  despite  thy  meditative  air, 
I  hold  thy  stock  of  wit  but  paltry  pelf  — 

Thou  show'st  that  same  grave  aspect  everywhere, 
And  wouldst  look  thoughtful,  stuffed,   upon  a 
shelf. 

I  grieve  to  be  so  plain,  renownSd  Bird  — 
Thy  fame  's  a  flam,  and  thou  an  empty  fowl ; 

And  what  is  more,  upon  a  Poet's  word 
I  'd  say  as  much,  wert  thou  Minerva's  owl. 

So  doff  th'  imposture  of  those  heavy  brows ; 

They  do  not  serve  to  hide  thy  instincts  base  — 
And  if  thou  must  be  sometimes  munching  mouse, 

Munch  it,  O  Owl !  with  less  profound  a  face. 


LOVE'S    LOGIC  127 


LOVE'S   LOGIC 

AND  if  I  ask  thee  for  a  kiss, 

I  ask  no  more  than  this  sweet  breeze, 
With  far  less  title  to  the  bliss, 

Steals  every  minute  at  his  ease. 
And  yet  how  placid  is  thy  brow  ! 

It  seems  to  woo  the  bold  caress, 
While  now  he  takes  his  kiss,  and  now 

All  sorts  of  freedoms  with  thy  dress. 

Or  if  I  dare  thy  hand  to  touch, 

Hath  nothing  pressed  its  palm  before  ? 
A  flower,  I  'm  sure,  hath  done  as  much, 

And  ah  !  some  senseless  diamond  more. 
It  strikes  me,  love,  the  very  rings, 

Now  sparkling  on  that  hand  of  thine, 
Could  tell  some  truly  startling  things, 

If  they  had  tongues  or  touch  like  mine. 

Indeed,  indeed,  I  do  not  know 

Of  all  that  thou  hast  power  to  grant, 
A  boon  for  which  I  could  not  show 

Some  pretty  precedent  extant. 
Suppose,  for  instance,  I  should  clasp 

Thus, —  so,  —  and  thus  !  —  thy  slender  waist  • 
I  would  not  hold  within  my  grasp 

More  than  this  loosened  zone  embraced. 


128          POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 

Oh !  put  the  anger  from  thine  eyes, 

Or  shut  them  if  they  still  must  frown ; 
Those  lids,  despite  yon  garish  skies, 

Can  bring  a  timely  darkness  down. 
Then,  if  in  that  convenient  night, 

My  lips  should  press  thy  dewy  mouth, 
The  touch  shall  be  so  soft,  so  light, 

Thou  'It  fancy  me  —  this  gentle  South. 


SECOND   LOVE 

COULD  I  reveal  the  secret  joy 

Thy  presence  always  with  it  brings, 

The  memories  so  strangely  waked 
Of  long  forgotten  things, 

The  love,  the  hope,  the  fear,  the  grief, 
Which  with  that  voice  come  back  to  me,  - 

Thou  wouldst  forgive  the  impassioned  gaze 
So  often  turned  on  thee. 

It  was,  indeed,  that  early  love, 

But  foretaste  of  this  second  one,  — 

The  soft  light  of  the  morning  star 
Before  the  morning  sun. 

The  same  dark  beauty  in  her  eyes, 

The  same  blonde  hair  and  placid  brow, 


HYMN  129 

The  same  deep-meaning,  quiet  smile 
Thou  bendest  on  me  now, 

She  might  have  been,  she  was  no  more 
Than  what  a  prescient  hope  could  make,  — 

A  dear  presentiment  of  thee 
I  loved  but  for  thy  sake. 

HYMN 

SUNG   AT   THE    CONSECRATION   OF    MAGNOLIA   CEME- 
TERY, CHARLESTON,  S.  C. 

WHOSE  was  the  hand  that  painted  thee,  O  Death  ! 

In  the  false  aspect  of  a  ruthless  foe, 
Despair  and  sorrow  waiting  on  thy  breath  — 

O  gentle  Power !  who  could  have  wronged  thee 
so? 

Thou  rather  shouldst  be   crowned  with  fadeless 
flowers, 

Of  lasting  fragrance  and  celestial  hue  ; 
Or  be  thy  couch  amid  funereal  bowers, 

But  let  the  stars  and  sunlight  sparkle  through. 

So,  with  these  thoughts  before  us,  we  have  fixed 
And  beautified,  O  Death  !  thy  mansion  here, 

Where  gloom  and  gladness  —  grave  and  garden  — 

mixed, 
Make  it  a  place  to  love,  and  not  to  fear. 


130  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Heaven  !  shed  thy  most  propitious  dews  around  ! 

Ye  holy  stars  !  look  down  with  tender  eyes, 
And  gild  and  guard  and  consecrate  the  ground 

Where  we  may  rest,  and  whence  we  pray  to  rise. 


HYMN 

SUNG   AT  A   SACRED   CONCERT  AT   COLUMBIA,  S.    C. 

I 

FAINT  falls  the  gentle  voice  of  prayer 
In  the  wild  sounds  that  fill  the  air, 
Yet,  Lord,  we  know  that  voice  is  heard, 
Not  less  than  if  Thy  throne  it  stirred. 

ii 

Thine  ear,  thou  tender  One,  is  caught, 
If  we  but  bend  the  knee  in  thought ; 
No  choral  song  that  shakes  the  sky 
Floats  farther  than  the  Christian's  sigh. 

in 

Not  all  the  darkness  of  the  land 
Can  hide  the  lifted  eye  and  hand ; 
Nor  need  the  clanging  conflict  cease, 
To  make  Thee  hear  our  cries  for  peace. 


LINES   TO   R.   L.  131 


LINES   TO   R.   L. 

THAT  which  we  are  and  shall  be  is  made  up 
Of  what  we  have  been.     On  the  autumn  leaf 
The  crimson  stains  bear  witness  of  its  spring ; 
And,  on  its  perfect  nodes,  the  ocean  shell 
Notches  the  slow,  strange  changes  of  its  growth. 
Ourselves  are  our  own  records  ;  if  we  looked 
Rightly  into  that  blotted  crimson  page 
Within  our  bosoms,  then  there  were  no  need 
To  chronicle  our  stories  ;  for  the  heart 
Hath,  like  the  earth,  its  strata,  and  contains 
Its  past  within  its  present.     Well  for  us, 
And  our  most  cherished  secrets,  that  within 
The  round  of  being  few  there  are  who  read 
Beneath  the  surface.     Else  our  very  forms, 
The  merest  gesture  of  our  hands,  might  tell 
Much  we  would  hide  forever.     Know  you  not 
Those  eyes,  in  whose  dark  heaven  I  have  gazed 
More  curiously  than  on  my  favorite  stars, 
Are  deeper  for  such  griefs  as  they  have  seen, 
And  brighter  for  the  fancies  they  have  shrined, 
And  sweeter  for  the  loves  which  they  have  talked  ? 
Oh !  that  I  had  the  power  to  read  their  smiles, 
Or  sound  the  depth  of  all  their  glorious  gloom. 
So  should  I  learn  your  history  from  its  birth, 
Through  all  its  glad  and  grave  experiences, 
Better  than  if  —  (your  journal  in  my  hand, 


132          POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 

Written  as  only  women  write,  with  all 
A  woman's  shades  and  shapes  of  feeling,  traced 
As  with  the  fine  touch  of  a  needle's  point)  — 
I  followed  you  from  that  bright  hour  when  first 
I  saw  you  in  the  garden  'mid  the  flowers, 
To  that  wherein  a  letter  from  your  hand 
Made  me  all  rich  with  the  dear  name  of  friend. 


TO   WHOM? 

AWAKE  upon  a  couch  of  pain, 

I  see  a  star  betwixt  the  trees  ; 
Across  yon  darkening  field  of  cane, 

Comes  slow  and  soft  the  evening  breeze. 
My  curtain's  folds  are  faintly  stirred  ; 

And  moving  lightly  in  her  rest, 
I  hear  the  chirrup  of  a  bird, 

That  dreameth  in  some  neighboring  nest. 

Last  night  I  took  no  note  of  these  — 

How  it  was  passed  I  scarce  can  say  ; 
'T  was  not  in  prayers  to  Heaven  for  ease, 

'T  was  not  in  wishes  for  the  day. 
Impatient  tears,  and  passionate  sighs, 

Touched  as  with  fire  the  pulse  of  pain,  — 
I  cursed,  and  cursed  the  wildering  eyes 

That  burned  this  fever  in  my  brain. 


TO   THEE  133 

Oh  !  blessings  on  the  quiet  hour ! 

My  thoughts  in  calmer  current  flow  ; 
She  is  not  conscious  of  her  power, 

And  hath  no  knowledge  of  my  woe. 
Perhaps,  if  like  yon  peaceful  star, 

She  looked  upon  my  burning  brow, 
She  would  not  pity  from  afar, 

But  kiss  me  as  the  breeze  does  now. 


TO  THEE 

DRAW  close  the  lattice  and  the  door ! 

Shut  out  the  very  stars  above  ! 
No  other  eyes  than  mine  shall  pore 

Upon  this  thrilling  tale  of  love. 
As,  since  the  book  was  open  last, 

Along  its  dear  and  sacred  text 
No  other  eyes  than  thine  have  passed  - 

Be  mine  the  eyes  that  trace  it  next ! 

Oh  !  very  nobly  is  it  wrought,  — 

This  web  of  love's  divinest  light,  — 
But  not  to  feed  my  soul  with  thought, 

Hang  I  upon  the  book  to-night ; 
I  read  it  only  for  thy  sake, 

To  every  page  my  lips  I  press  — 
The  very  leaves  appear  to  make 

A  silken  rustle  like  thy  dress. 


134  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

And  so,  as  each  blest  page  I  turn, 

I  seem,  with  many  a  secret  thrill, 
To  touch  a  soft  white  hand,  and  burn 

To  clasp  and  kiss  it  at  my  will. 
Oh  !  if  a  fancy  be  so  sweet, 

These  shadowy  fingers  touching  mine 
How  wildly  would  my  pulses  beat, 

If  they  could  feel  the  beat  of  thine  ! 


STORM   AND   CALM 

SWEET  are  these  kisses  of  the  South, 
As  dropped  from  woman's  rosiest  mouth, 
And  tenderer  are  those  azure  skies 
Than  this  world's  tenderest  pair  of  eyes  ! 

But  ah !  beneath  such  influence 
Thought  is  too  often  lost  in  Sense  ; 
And  Action,  faltering  as  we  thrill, 
Sinks  in  the  unnerved  arms  of  Will. 

Awake,  thou  stormy  North,  and  blast 
The  subtle  spells  around  us  cast ; 
Beat  from  our  limbs  these  flowery  chains 
With  the  sharp  scourges  of  thy  rains  ! 

Bring  with  thee  from  thy  Polar  cave 
All  the  wild  songs  of  wind  and  wave, 


STORM   AND   CALM  135 

Of  toppling  berg  and  grinding  floe, 
And  the  dread  avalanche  of  snow  ! 

Wrap  us  in  Arctic  night  and  clouds  ! 
Yell  like  a  fiend  amid  the  shrouds 
Of  some  slow-sinking  vessel,  when 
He  hears  the  shrieks  of  drowning  men  ! 

Blend  in  thy  mighty  voice  whate'er 
Of  danger,  terror,  and  despair 
Thou  hast  encountered  in  thy  sweep 
Across  the  land  and  o'er  the  deep. 

Pour  in  our  ears  all  notes  of  woe, 
That,  as  these  very  moments  flow, 
Rise  like  a  harsh  discordant  psalm, 
While  we  lie  here  in  tropic  calm. 

Sting  our  weak  hearts  with  bitter  shame, 
Bear  us  along  with  thee  like  flame ; 
And  prove  that  even  to  destroy 
More  God-like  may  be  than  to  toy 
And  rust  or  rot  in  idle  joy  1 


136  POEMS   OF  HENRY   TIMROD 


RETIREMENT 

MY  gentle  friend  !  I  hold  no  creed  so  false 

As  that  which  dares  to  teach  that  we  are  born 

For  battle  only,  and  that  in  this  life 

The  soul,  if  it  would  burn  with  starlike  power, 

Must  needs  forsooth  be  kindled  by  the  sparks 

Struck  from  the  shock  of  clashing  human  hearts. 

There  is  a  wisdom  that  grows  up  in  strife, 

And  one  —  I  like  it  best  —  that  sits  at  home 

And  learns  its  lessons  of  a  thoughtful  ease. 

So  come  !  a  lonely  house  awaits  thee  !  —  there 

Nor  praise,  nor  blame  shall  reach  us,  save  what 

love 

Of  knowledge  for  itself  shall  wake  at  times 
In  our  own  bosoms ;  come  !  and  we  will  build 
A  wall  of  quiet  thought,  and  gentle  books, 
Betwixt  us  and  the  hard  and  bitter  world. 
Sometimes  —  for  we  need  not  be  anchorites  — 
A  distant  friend  shall  cheer  us  through  the  Post, 
Or  some  Gazette  —  of  course  no  partisan  — 
Shall  bring  us  pleasant  news  of  pleasant  things  ; 
Then,  twisted  into  graceful  allumettes, 
Each  ancient  joke  shall  blaze  with  genuine  flame 
To  light  our  pipes  and  candles ;  but  to  wars, 
Whether  of  words  or  weapons,  we  shall  be 
Deaf — so  we  twain  shall  pass  away  the  time 
Ev'n  as  a  pair  of  happy  lovers,  who, 


A   COMMON   THOUGHT  137 

Alone,  within  some  quiet  garden-nook, 
With  a  clear  night  of  stars  above  their  heads, 
Just  hear,  betwixt  their  kisses  and  their  talk, 
The  tumult  of  a  tempest  rolling  through 
A  chain  of  neighboring  mountains  ;  they  awhile 
Pause  to  admire  a  flash  that  only  shows 
The  smile  upon  their  faces,  but,  full  soon, 
Turn  with  a  quick,  glad  impulse,  and  perhaps 
A  conscious  wile  that  brings  them  closer  yet, 
To  dally  with  their  own  fond  hearts,  and  play 
With  the  sweet  flowers  that  blossom  at  their  feet. 


A  COMMON  THOUGHT 

SOMEWHERE  on  this  earthly  planet 

In  the  dust  of  flowers  to  be, 
In  the  dewdrop,  in  the  sunshine, 

Sleeps  a  solemn  day  for  me. 

At  this  wakeful  hour  of  midnight 

I  behold  it  dawn  in  mist, 
And  I  hear  a  sound  of  sobbing 

Through  the  darkness  —  hist !  oh,  hist ! 

In  a  dim  and  murky  chamber, 

I  am  breathing  life  away  ; 
Some  one  draws  a  curtain  softly, 

And  I  watch  the  broadening  day. 


138  POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 

As  it  purples  in  the  zenith, 
As  it  brightens  on  the  lawn, 

There  's  a  hush  of  death  about  me, 
And  a  whisper,  "  He  is  gone  !  " 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  WAR  TIMES 


CAROLINA 


THE  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 
Thy  pines  give  shelter  to  his  bands, 
Thy  sons  stand  by  with  idle  hands, 

Carolina ! 

He  breathes  at  ease  thy  airs  of  balm, 
He  scorns  the  lances  of  thy  palm ; 
Oh !  who  shall  break  thy  craven  calm, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  ancient  fame  is  growing  dim, 
A  spot  is  on  thy  garment's  rim ; 
Give  to  the  winds  thy  battle  hymn, 

Carolina ! 

ii 

Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill, 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  skill, 

Carolina ! 

Cite  wealth  and  science,  trade  and  art, 
Touch  with  thy  fire  the  cautious  mart, 
And  pour  thee  through  the  people's  heart, 

Carolina ! 


142          POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Till  even  the  coward  spurns  his  fears, 
And  all  thy  fields  and  fens  and  meres 
Shall  bristle  like  thy  palm  with  spears, 
Carolina ! 

in 

Hold  up  the  glories  of  thy  dead ; 
Say  how  thy  elder  children  bled, 
And  point  to  Eutaw's  battle-bed, 

Carolina ! 

Tell  how  the  patriot's  soul  was  tried, 
And  what  his  dauntless  breast  defied  ; 
How  Rutledge  ruled  and  Laurens  died, 

Carolina ! 

Cry  !  till  thy  summons,  heard  at  last, 
Shall  fall  like  Marion's  bugle-blast 
Re-echoed  from  the  haunted  Past, 

Carolina ! 

IV 

I  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 

That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 

Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina ! 

And  now  it  deepens  ;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as,  rolling  to  the  land, 
An  ocean  broke  upon  thy  strand, 

Carolina ! 


CAROLINA  143 

Shout !  let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns  ! 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns ! 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! 


They  will  not  wait  to  hear  thee  call ; 
From  Sachem's  Head  to  Sumter's  wall 
Resounds  the  voice  of  hut  and  hall, 

Carolina ! 

No !  thou  hast  not  a  stain,  they  say, 
Or  none  save  what  the  battle-day 
Shall  wash  in  seas  of  blood  away, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  skirts  indeed  the  foe  may  part, 
Thy  robe  be  pierced  with  sword  and  dart, 
They  shall  not  touch  thy  noble  heart, 

Carolina ! 

VI 

Ere  thou  shalt  own  the  tyrant's  thrall 
Ten  times  ten  thousand  men  must  fall ; 
Thy  corpse  may  hearken  to  his  call, 

Carolina ! 

When,  by  thy  bier,  in  mournful  throngs 
The  women  chant  thy  mortal  wrongs, 
'T  will  be  their  own  funereal  songs, 

Carolina  1 


144  POEMS   OF  HENRY   TIMROD 

From  thy  dead  breast  by  ruffians  trod 
No  helpless  child  shall  look  to  God ; 
All  shall  be  safe  beneath  thy  sod, 
Carolina ! 

VII 

Girt  with  such  wills  to  do  and  bear, 
Assured  in  right,  and  mailed  in  prayer, 
Thou  wilt  not  bow  thee  to  despair, 

Carolina ! 

Throw  thy  bold  banner  to  the  breeze ! 
Front  with  thy  ranks  the  threatening  seas 
Like  thine  own  proud  armorial  trees, 

Carolina  ! 

Fling  down  thy  gauntlet  to  the  Huns, 
And  roar  the  challenge  from  thy  guns  ; 
Then  leave  the  future  to  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! 


A  CRY  TO  ARMS 

Ho !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side  t 

Ho  !  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho !  ye  who  by  the  chafing  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales  ! 
Leave  barn  and  byre,  leave  kin  and  cot, 

Lay  by  the  bloodless  spade  ; 
Let  desk,  and  case,  and  counter  rot, 

And  burn  your  books  of  trade. 


A  CRY  TO   ARMS  145 

The  despot  roves  your  fairest  lands ; 

And  till  he  flies  or  fears, 
Your  fields  must  grow  but  armed  bands, 

Your  sheaves  be  sheaves  of  spears  ! 
Give  up  to  mildew  and  to  rust 

The  useless  tools  of  gain  ; 
And  feed  your  country's  sacred  dust 

With  floods  of  crimson  rain  ! 

Come,  with  the  weapons  at  your  call  — 

With  musket,  pike,  or  knife  ; 
He  wields  the  deadliest  blade  of  all 

Who  lightest  holds  his  life. 
The  arm  that  drives  its  unbought  blows 

With  all  a  patriot's  scorn, 
Might  brain  a  tyrant  with  a  rose, 

Or  stab  him  with  a  thorn. 

Does  any  falter  ?  let  him  turn 

To  some  brave  maiden's  eyes, 
And  catch  the  holy  fires  that  burn 

In  those  sublunar  skies. 
Oh  !  could  you  like  your  women  feel, 

And  in  their  spirit  march, 
A  day  might  see  your  lines  of  steel 

Beneath  the  victor's  arch. 

What  hope,  O  God  !  would  not  grow  warm 
When  thoughts  like  these  give  cheer  ? 


146  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

The  Lily  calmly  braves  the  storm, 
And  shall  the  Palm-tree  fear  ? 

No !  rather  let  its  branches  court 
The  rack  that  sweeps  the  plain ; 

And  from  the  Lily's  regal  port 
Learn  how  to  breast  the  strain  ! 

Ho !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side  ! 

Ho  !  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho  !  ye  who  by  the  roaring  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales ! 
Come  !  flocking  gayly  to  the  fight, 

From  forest,  hill,  and  lake  ; 
We  battle  for  our  Country's  right, 

And  for  the  Lily's  sake  ! 


CHARLESTON 

CALM  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds, 

The  City  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts  stern  and  proud, 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep  — 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 

Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 


CHARLESTON  147 

No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scar 

To  guard  the  holy  strand  j 
But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war 

Above  the  level  sand. 


And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie  couched, 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood  — 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile,  through  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 

Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 
Whose   hands   may   one   day   wield    the   patriot's 
blade       . 

As  lightly  as  the  pen. 

And  maidens,  with  such  eyes  as  would  grow  dim 

Over  a  bleeding  hound, 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  of  him 

Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 

Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 

Old   Charleston  looks  from  roof,  and   spire,  and 
dome, 

Across  her  tranquil  bay. 

Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands 
And  spicy  Indian  ports, 


148  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 
And  Summer  to  her  courts. 


But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine, 

From  some  frail,  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  Spring  dawn,  and  she  still  clad  in  smiles, 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned  isles, 

As  fair  and  free  as  now  ? 

We  know  not ;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 

God  has  inscribed  her  doom  ; 
And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

The  triumph  or  the  tomb. 


RIPLEY 

RICH  in  red  honors,  that  upon  him  lie 
As  lightly  as  the  Summer  dews 

Fall  where  he  won  his  fame  beneath  the  sky 
Of  tropic  Vera  Cruz  ; 

Bold  scorner  of  the  cant  that  has  its  birth 

In  feeble  or  in  failing  powers  ; 
A  lover  of  all  frank  and  genial  mirth 

That  wreathes  the  sword  with  flowers ; 


RIPLEY  149 

He  moves  amid  the  warriors  of  the  day, 

Just  such  a  soldier  as  the  art 
That  builds  its  trophies  upon  human  clay 

Moulds  of  a  cheerful  heart. 

I  see  him  in  the  battle  that  shall  shake, 
Ere  long,  old  Sumter's  haughty  crown, 

And  from  their  dreams  of  peaceful  traffic  wake 
The  wharves  of  yonder  town  ; 

As  calm  as  one  would  greet  a  pleasant  guest, 

And  quaff  a  cup  to  love  and  life, 
He  hurls  his  deadliest  thunders  with  a  jest, 

And  laughs  amid  the  strife. 

Yet  not  the  gravest  soldier  of  them  all 

Surveys  a  field  with  broader  scope ; 
And  who  behind  that  sea-encircled  wall 

Fights  with  a  loftier  hope  ? 

Gay  Chieftain  !  on  the  crimson  rolls  of  Fame 
Thy  deeds  are  written  with  the  sword  ; 

But  there  are  gentler  thoughts  which,  with   thy 

name, 
Thy  country's  page  shall  hoard. 

A  nature  of  that  rare  and  happy  cast 
Which  looks,  unsteeled,  on  murder's  face  ; 


150  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Through  what  dark  scenes  of  bloodshed  hast  thou 

passed, 
Yet  lost  no  social  grace  ? 

So,  when  the  bard  depicts  thee,  thou  shalt  wield 

The  weapon  of  a  tyrant's  doom, 
Round   which,  inscribed  with  many  a  well-fought 
field, 

The  rose  of  joy  shall  bloom. 


ETHNOGENESIS 

WRITTEN     DURING     THE     MEETING     OF     THE     FIRST 
SOUTHERN    CONGRESS,    AT   MONTGOMERY,       FEBRU- 
ARY, 1 86 1 

I 

HATH  not  the  morning  dawned  with  added  light  ? 

And  shall  not  evening  call  another  star 

Out  of  the  infinite  regions  of  the  night, 

To  mark  this  day  in  Heaven  ?     At  last,  we  are 

A  nation  among  nations  ;  and  the  world 

Shall  soon  behold  in  many  a  distant  port 

Another  flag  unfurled  ! 

Now,  come  what  may,  whose  favor  need  we  court  ? 
And,  under  God,  whose  thunder  need  we  fear  ? 

Thank  Him  who  placed  us  here 
Beneath  so  kind  a  sky  —  the  very  sun 


ETHNOGENESIS  151 

Takes  part  with  us  ;  and  on  our  errands  run 
All  breezes  of  the  ocean  ;  dew  and  rain 
Do  noiseless  battle  for  us  ;  and  the  Year, 
And  all  the  gentle  daughters  in  her  train, 
March  in  our  ranks,  and  in  our  service  wield 

Long  spears  of  golden  grain  ! 
A  yellow  blossom  as  her  fairy  shield, 
June  flings  her  azure  banner  to  the  wind, 

While  in  the  order  of  their  birth 
Her  sisters  pass,  and  many  an  ample  field 
Grows  white  beneath  their  steps,  till  now,  behold, 

Its  endless  sheets  unfold 

THE  SNOW  OF  SOUTHERN  SUMMERS  !  Let  the  earth 
Rejoice  !  beneath  those  fleeces  soft  and  warm 

Our  happy  land  shall  sleep 

In  a  repose  as  deep 
As  if  we  lay  intrenched  behind 
Whole  leagues  of  Russian  ice  and  Arctic  storm  ! 

II 

And  what  if,  mad   with   wrongs   themselves  have 
wrought, 

In  their  own  treachery  caught, 

By  their  own  fears  made  bold, 

And  leagued  with  him  of  old, 
Who  long  since  in  the  limits  of  the  North 
Set  up  his  evil  throne,  and  warred  with  God  — 
What  if,  both  mad  and  blinded  in  their  rage, 
Our  foes  should  fling  us  down  their  mortal  gage, 

13 


152  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

And  with  a  hostile  step  profane  our  sod ! 
We  shall  not  shrink,  my  brothers,  but  go  forth 
To  meet  them,  marshaled  by  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
And  overshadowed  by  the  mighty  ghosts 
Of  Moultrie  and  of  Eutaw  —  who  shall  foil 
Auxiliars  such  as  these  ?     Nor  these  alone, 

But  every  stock  and  stone 

Shall  help  us ;  but  the  very  soil, 
And  all  the  generous  wealth  it  gives  to  toil, 
And  all  for  which  we  love  our  noble  land, 
Shall  fight  beside,  and  through  us ;  sea  and  strand, 

The  heart  of  woman,  and  her  hand, 
Tree,  fruit,  and  flower,  and  every  influence, 

Gentle,  or  grave,  or  grand  ; 

The  winds  in  our  defence 
Shall  seem  to  blow ;  to  us  the  hills  shall  lend 

Their  firmness  and  their  calm  ; 
And  in  our  stiffened  sinews  we  shall  blend 

The  strength  of  pine  and  palm ! 

Ill 
Nor  would  we  shun  the  battle-ground, 

Though  weak  as  we  are  strong ; 
Call  up  the  clashing  elements  around, 

And  test  the  right  and  wrong  ! 
On  one  side,  creeds  that  dare  to  teach 
What  Christ  and  Paul  refrained  to  preach  ; 
Codes  built  upon  a  broken  pledge, 
And  Charity  that  whets  a  poniard's  edge ; 


ETHNOGENESIS  153 

Fair  schemes  that  leave  the  neighboring  poor 
To  starve  and  shiver  at  the  schemer's  door, 
While  in  the  world's  most  liberal  ranks  enrolled, 
He  turns  some  vast  philanthropy  to  gold ; 
Religion,  taking  every  mortal  form 
But  that  a  pure  and  Christian  faith  makes  warm, 
Where  not  to  vile  fanatic  passion  urged, 
Or  not  in  vague  philosophies  submerged, 
Repulsive  with  all  Pharisaic  leaven, 
And  making  laws  to  stay  the  laws  of  Heaven ! 
And  on  the  other,  scorn  of  sordid  gain, 
Unblemished  honor,  truth  without  a  stain, 
Faith,  justice,  reverence,  charitable  wealth, 
And,  for  the  poor  and  humble,  laws  which  give, 
Not  the  mean  right  to  buy  the  right  to  live, 

But  life,  and  home,  and  health ! 
To  doubt  the  end  were  want  of  trust  in  God, 

Who,  if  he  has  decreed 
That  we  must  pass  a  redder  sea 
Than  that  which  rang  to  Miriam's  holy  glee, 

Will  surely  raise  at  need 

A  Moses  with  his  rod  ! 

IV 

But  let  our  fears  —  if  fears  we  have  —  be  still, 
And  turn  us  to  the  future  !     Could  we  climb 
Some  mighty  Alp,  and  view  the  coming  time, 
The  rapturous  sight  would  fill 

Our  eyes  with  happy  tears  ! 


154  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Not  only  for  the  glories  which  the  years 
Shall  bring  us ;  not  for  lands  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  wealth,  and  power,  and  peace,  though  these 

shall  be ; 

But  for  the  distant  peoples  we  shall  bless, 
And  the  hushed  murmurs  of  a  world's  distress  : 
For,  to  give  labor  to  the  poor, 

The  whole  sad  planet  o'er, 
And   save  from   want    and    crime    the   humblest 

door, 
Is  one  among  the  many  ends  for  which 

God  makes  us  great  and  rich  ! 
The  hour  perchance  is  not  yet  wholly  ripe 
When  all  shall  own  it,  but  the  type 
Whereby  we  shall  be  known  in  every  land 
Is  that  vast  gulf  which  lips  our  Southern  strand, 
And  through  the  cold,  untempered  ocean  pours 
Its  genial  streams,  that  far  off  Arctic  shores 
May  sometimes  catch  upon  the  softened  breeze 
Strange  tropic  warmth  and  hints  of  summer  seas. 


CARMEN   TRIUMPHALE 

Go  forth  and  bid  the  land  rejoice, 
Yet  not  too  gladly,  O  my  song  ! 
Breathe  softly,  as  if  mirth  would  wrong 

The* solemn  rapture  of  thy  voice. 


CARMEN   TRIUMPHALE  155 

Be  nothing  lightly  done  or  said 

This  happy  day  !     Our  joy  should  flow 
Accordant  with  the  lofty  woe 

That  wails  above  the  noble  dead. 

Let  him  whose  brow  and  breast  were  calm 

While  yet  the  battle  lay  with  God, 

Look  down  upon  the  crimson  sod 
And  gravely  wear  his  mournful  palm  ; 

And  him,  whose  heart  still  weak  from  fear 
Beats  all  too  gayly  for  the  time, 
Know  that  intemperate  glee  is  crime 

While  one  dead  hero  claims  a  tear. 

Yet  go  thou  forth,  my  song  !  and  thrill, 
With  sober  joy,  the  troubled  days  ; 
A  nation's  hymn  of  grateful  praise 

May  not  be  hushed  for  private  ill. 

Our  foes  are  fallen !     Flash,  ye  wires  ! 

The  mighty  tidings  far  and  nigh  ! 

Ye  cities !  write  them  on  the  sky 
In  purple  and  in  emerald  fires ! 

They  came  with  many  a  haughty  boast ; 

Their  threats  were  heard  on  every  breeze ; 

They  darkened  half  the  neighboring  seas ; 
And  swooped  like  vultures  on  the  coast. 


156          POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

False  recreants  in  all  knightly  strife, 
Their  way  was  wet  with  woman's  tears  ; 
Behind  them  flamed  the  toil  of  years, 

And  bloodshed  stained  the  sheaves  of  life. 

They  fought  as  tyrants  fight,  or  slaves  ; 

God  gave  the  dastards  to  our  hands ; 

Their  bones  are  bleaching  on  the  sands, 
Or  mouldering  slow  in  shallow  graves. 

What  though  we  hear  about  our  path 

The  heavens  with  howls  of  vengeance  rent  ? 
The  venom  of  their  hate  is  spent ; 

We  need  not  heed  their  fangless  wrath. 

Meantime  the  stream  they  strove  to  chain 
Now  drinks  a  thousand  springs,  and  sweeps 
With  broadening  breast,  and  mightier  deeps, 

And  rushes  onward  to  the  main  ; 

While  down  the  swelling  current  glides 
Our  Ship  of  State  before  the  blast, 
With  streamers  poured  from  every  mast, 

Her  thunders  roaring  from  her  sides. 

Lord  !  bid  the  frenzied  tempest  cease, 
Hang  out  thy  rainbow  on  the  sea ! 
Laugh  round  her,  waves  !  in  silver  glee, 

And  speed  her  to  the  port  of  peace  ! 


THE   UNKNOWN    DEAD  157 


THE   UNKNOWN   DEAD 

THE  rain  is  plashing  on  my  sill, 

But  all  the  winds  of  Heaven  are  still ; 

And  so  it  falls  with  that  dull  sound 

Which  thrills  us  in  the  church-yard  ground, 

When  the  first  spadeful  drops  like  lead 

Upon  the  coffin  of  the  dead. 

Beyond  my  streaming  window-pane, 

I  cannot  see  the  neighboring  vane, 

Yet  from  its  old  familiar  tower 

The  bell  comes,  muffled,  through  the  shower. 

What  strange  and  unsuspected  link 

Of  feeling  touched,  has  made  me  think  — 

While  with  a  vacant  soul  and  eye 

I  watch  that  gray  and  stony  sky  — 

Of  nameless  graves  on  battle-plains 

Washed  by  a  single  winter's  rains, 

Where,  some  beneath  Virginian  hills, 

And  some  by  green  Atlantic  rills, 

Some  by  the  waters  of  the  West, 

A  myriad  unknown  heroes  rest. 

Ah  !  not  the  chiefs,  who,  dying,  see 

Their  flags  in  front  of  victory, 

Or,  at  their  life-blood's  noble  cost 

Pay  for  a  battle  nobly  lost, 

Claim  from  their  monumental  beds 

The  bitterest  tears  a  nation  sheds. 


158  POEMS    OF   HENRY   TIMROD 

Beneath  yon  lonely  mound  —  the  spot 
By  all  save  some  fond  few  forgot  — 
Lie  the  true  martyrs  of  the  fight 
Which  strikes  for  freedom  and  for  right. 
Of  them,  their  patriot  zeal  and  pride, 
The  lofty  faith  that  with  them  died, 
No  grateful  page  shall  farther  tell 
Than  that  so  many  bravely  fell ; 
And  we  can  only  dimly  guess 
What  worlds  of  all  this  world's  distress, 
What  utter  woe,  despair,  and  dearth, 
Their  fate  has  brought  to  many  a  hearth. 
Just  such  a  sky  as  this  should  weep 
Above  them,  always,  where  they  sleep  ; 
Yet,  haply,  at  this  very  hour, 
Their  graves  are  like  a  lover's  bower  ; 
And  Nature's  self,  with  eyes  unwet, 
Oblivious  of  the  crimson  debt 
To  which  she  owes  her  April  grace, 
Laughs  gayly  o'er  their  burial-place. 


THE  TWO   ARMIES 

Two  armies  stand  enrolled  beneath 

The  banner  with  the  starry  wreath ; 

One,  facing  battle,  blight  and  blast, 

Through  twice  a  hundred  fields  has  passed  ; 

Its  deeds  against  a  ruffian  foe, 

Stream,  valley,  hill,  and  mountain  know, 


THE   TWO   ARMIES  159 

Till  every  wind  that  sweeps  the  land 
Goes,  glory  laden,  from  the  strand. 

The  other,  with  a  narrower  scope, 
Yet  led  by  not  less  grand  a  hope, 
Hath  won,  perhaps,  as  proud  a  place, 
And  wears  its  fame  with  meeker  grace. 
Wives  march  beneath  its  glittering  sign, 
Fond  mothers  swell  the  lovely  line, 
And  many  a  sweetheart  hides  her  blush 
In  the  young  patriot's  generous  flush. 

No  breeze  of  battle  ever  fanned 
The  colors  of  that  tender  band  j 
Its  office  is  beside  the  bed, 
Where  throbs  some  sick  or  wounded  head. 
It  does  not  court  the  soldier's  tomb, 
But  plies  the  needle  and  the  loom  • 
And,  by  a  thousand  peaceful  deeds, 
Supplies  a  struggling  nation's  needs. 

Nor  is  that  army's  gentle  might 
Unfelt  amid  the  deadly  fight ; 
It  nerves  the  son's,  the  husband's  hand, 
It  points  the  lover's  fearless  brand  ; 
It  thrills  the  languid,  warms  the  cold, 
Gives  even  new  courage  to  the  bold  ; 
And  sometimes  lifts  the  veriest  clod 
To  its  own  lofty  trust  in  God. 


160          POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 

When  Heaven  shall  blow  the  trump  of  peace, 
And  bid  this  weary  warfare  cease, 
Their  several  missions  nobly  done, 
The  triumph  grasped,  and  freedom  won, 
Both  armies,  from  their  toils  at  rest, 
Alike  may  claim  the  victor's  crest, 
But  each  shall  see  its  dearest  prize 
Gleam  softly  from  the  other's  eyes. 


CHRISTMAS 

How  grace  this  hallowed  day  ? 
Shall  happy  bells,  from  yonder  ancient  spire, 
Send  their  glad  greetings  to  each  Christmas  fire 

Round  which  the  children  play  ? 

Alas  !  for  many  a  moon, 
That  tongueless  tower  hath  cleaved  the  Sabbath 

air, 
Mute  as  an  obelisk  of  ice,  aglare 

Beneath  an  Arctic  noon. 

Shame  to  the  foes  that  drown 
Our  psalms  of  worship  with  their  impious  drum, 
The  sweetest  chimes  in  all  the  land  lie  dumb 

In  some  far  rustic  town. 

There,  let  us  think,  they  keep, 
Of  the  dead  Yules  which  here  beside  the  sea 


CHRISTMAS  161 

They  Ve  ushered  in  with  old-world,  English  glee, 
Some  echoes  in  their  sleep. 

How  shall  we  grace  the  day  ? 
With  feast,   and   song,   and   dance,   and    antique 

sports, 
And  shout  of  happy  children  in  the  courts, 

And  tales  of  ghost  and  fay  ? 

Is  there  indeed  a  door, 

Where  the  old  pastimes,  with  their  lawful  noise, 
And  all  the  merry  round  of  Christmas  joys, 

Could  enter  as  of  yore  ? 

Would  not  some  pallid  face 
Look  in  upon  the  banquet,  calling  up 
Dread  shapes  of  battles  in  the  wassail  cup, 

And  trouble  all  the  place  ? 

How  could  we  bear  the  mirth, 
While  some  loved  reveler  of  a  year  ago 
Keeps  his  mute  Christmas  now  beneath  the  snow, 

In  cold  Virginian  earth  ? 

How  shall  we  grace  the  day  ? 
Ah !  let  the  thought  that  on  this  holy  morn 
The  Prince  of  Peace  —  the  Prince  of  Peace  was 
born, 

Employ  us,  while  we  pray ! 


162          POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 

Pray  for  the  peace  which  long 
Hath  left  this  tortured  land,  and  haply  now 
Holds  its  white  court  on  some  far  mountain's  brow, 

There  hardly  safe  from  wrong  ! 

Let  every  sacred  fane 
Call  its  sad  votaries  to  the  shrine  of  God, 
And,  with  the  cloister  and  the  tented  sod, 

Join  in  one  solemn  strain  ! 

With  pomp  of  Roman  form, 
With   the   grave   ritual   brought    from    England's 

shore, 
And  with  the  simple  faith  which  asks  no  more 

Than  that  the  heart  be  warm  ! 

He,  who,  till  time  shall  cease, 
Will  watch  that  earth,  where  once,  not  all  in  vain, 
He  died  to  give  us  peace,  may  not  disdain 

A  prayer  whose  theme  is  —  peace. 

Perhaps  ere  yet  the  Spring 
Hath  died  into  the  Summer,  over  all 
The  land,  the  peace  of  His  vast  love  shall  fall, 

Like  some  protecting  wing. 

Oh,  ponder  what  it  means  ! 
Oh,  turn  the  rapturous  thought  in  every  way  ! 
Oh,  give  the  vision  and  the  fancy  play, 

And  shape  the  coming  scenes ! 


CHRISTMAS  163 

Peace  in  the  quiet  dales, 
Made  rankly  fertile  by  the  blood  of  men, 
Peace  in  the  woodland,  and  the  lonely  glen, 

Peace  in  the  peopled  vales ! 

Peace  in  the  crowded  town, 
Peace  in  a  thousand  fields  of  waving  grain, 
Peace  in  the  highway  and  the  flowery  lane, 

Peace  on  the  wind-swept  down ! 

Peace  on  the  farthest  seas, 
Peace  in  our  sheltered  bays  and  ample  streams, 
Peace  wheresoe'er  our  starry  garland  gleams, 

And  peace  in  every  breeze  ! 

Peace  on  the  whirring  marts, 
Peace  where  the  scholar  thinks,  the  hunter  roams, 
Peace,  God  of  Peace!   peace,   peace,  in  all  our 
homes, 

And  peace  in  all  our  hearts  ! 


164          POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 


ODE 

SUNG  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  DECORATING  THE  GRAVES 
OF  THE  CONFEDERATE  DEAD,  AT  MAGNOLIA  CEME- 
TERY, CHARLESTON,  S.  C.,  1867 

I 

SLEEP  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause ; 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

ii 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone  ! 

in 
Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 
Behold  !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 

And  these  memorial  blooms. 

IV 

Small  tributes  !  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 


ODE  165 

v 
Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies  ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned ! 


SONNETS 


14 


SONNETS 


POET  !  if  on  a  lasting  fame  be  bent 

Thy  unperturbing  hopes,  thou  will  not  roam 

Too  far  from  thine  own  happy  heart  and  home ; 

Cling  to  the  lowly  earth,  and  be  content ! 

So  shall  thy  name  be  dear  to  many  a  heart ; 

So  shall  the  noblest  truths  by  thee  be  taught ; 

The  flower  and  fruit  of  wholesome  human  thought 

Bless  the  sweet  labors  of  thy  gentle  art. 

The  brightest  stars  are  nearest  to  the  earth, 

And  we  may  track  the  mighty  sun  above, 

Even  by  the  shadow  of  a  slender  flower. 

Always,  O  bard,  humility  is  power ! 

And  thou  mayst  draw  from  matters  of  the  hearth 

Truths  wide  as  nations,  and  as  deep  as  love. 


i;o          POEMS   OF  HENRY  TIMROD 


II 

MOST  men  know  love  but  as  a  part  of  life ; 
They  hide  it  in  some  corner  of  the  breast, 
Even  from  themselves ;  and  only  when  they  rest 
In  the  brief  pauses  of  that  daily  strife, 
Wherewith  the  world  might  else  be  not  so  rife, 
They  draw  it  forth  (as  one  draws  forth  a  toy 
To  soothe  some  ardent,  kiss-exacting  boy) 
And  hold  it  up  to  sister,  child,  or  wife. 
Ah  me !  why  may  not  love  and  life  be  one  ? 
Why  walk  we  thus  alone,  when  by  our  side, 
Love,  like  a  visible  God,  might  be  our  guide  ? 
How  would  the  marts  grow  noble  !  and  the  street, 
Worn  like  a  dungeon-floor  by  weary  feet, 
Seem  then  a  golden  court-way  of  the  Sun  ! 


SONNETS  171 


III 

LIFE  ever  seems  as  from  its  present  site 
It  aimed  to  lure  us.     Mountains  of  the  past 
It  melts,  with  all  their  crags  and  caverns  vast, 
Into  a  purple  cloud  !     Across  the  night 
Which  hides  what  is  to  be,  it  shoots  a  light 
All  rosy  with  the  yet  unrisen  dawn. 
Not  the  near  daisies,  but  yon  distant  height 
Attracts  us,  lying  on  this  emerald  lawn. 
And  always,  be  the  landscape  what  it  may  — 
Blue,  misty  hill  or  sweep  of  glimmering  plain  - 
It  is  the  eye's  endeavor  still  to  gain 
The  fine,  faint  limit  of  the  bounding  day. 
God,  haply,  in  this  mystic  mode,  would  fain 
Hint  of  a  happier  home,  far,  far  away ! 


172  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 


IV 

THEY  dub  thee  idler,  smiling  sneeringly, 
And  why  ?  because,  forsooth,  so  many  moons, 
Here  dwelling  voiceless  by  the  voiceful  sea, 
Thou  hast  not  set  thy  thoughts  to  paltry  tunes 
In  song  or  sonnet.     Them  these  golden  noons 
Oppress  not  with  their  beauty ;  they  could  prate, 
Even  while  a  prophet  read  the  solemn  runes 
On  which  is  hanging  some  imperial  fate. 
How  know  they,  these  good  gossips,  what  to  thee 
The  ocean  and  its  wanderers  may  have  brought  ? 
How  know  they,  in  their  busy  vacancy, 
With  what  far  aim  thy  spirit  may  be  fraught  ? 
Or  that  thou  dost  not  bow  thee  silently 
Before  some  great  unutterable  thought  ? 


SONNETS  173 


SOME  truths  there  be  are  better  left  unsaid ; 
Much  is  there  that  we  may  not  speak  unblamed. 
On  words,  as  wings,  how  many  joys  have  fled  ! 
The  jealous  fairies  love  not  to  be  named. 
There  is  an  old-world  tale  of  one  whose  bed 
A  genius  graced,  to  all,  save  him,  unknown  ; 
One  day  the  secret  passed  his  lips,  and  sped 
As  secrets  speed  —  thenceforth  he  slept  alone. 
Too  much,  oh !  far  too  much  is  told  in  books  j 
Too  broad  a  daylight  wraps  us  all  and  each. 
Ah  !  it  is  well  that,  deeper  than  our  looks, 
Some  secrets  lie  beyond  conjecture's  reach. 
Ah !  it  is  well  that  in  the  soul  are  nooks 
That  will  not  open  to  the  keys  of  speech. 


174          POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 


VI 

I  SCARCELY  grieve,  O  Nature !  at  the  lot 

That  pent  my  life  within  a  city's  bounds, 

And  shut  me  from  thy  sweetest  sights  and  sounds. 

Perhaps  I  had  not  learned,  if  some  lone  cot 

Had  nursed  a  dreamy  childhood,  what  the  mart 

Taught  me  amid  its  turmoil ;  so  my  youth 

Had  missed  full  many  a  stern  but  wholesome  truth. 

Here,  too,  O  Nature !  in  this  haunt  of  Art, 

Thy  power  is  on  me,  and  I  own  thy  thrall. 

There  is  no  unimpressive  spot  on  earth  ! 

The  beauty  of  the  stars  is  over  all, 

And  Day  and  Darkness  visit  every  hearth. 

Clouds  do  not  scorn  us  :  yonder  factory's  smoke 

Looked  like  a  golden  mist  when  morning  broke. 


SONNETS  175 


VII 

GRIEF  dies  like  joy ;  the  tears  upon  my  cheek 
Will  disappear  like  dew.     Dear  God  !  I  know 
Thy  kindly  Providence  hath  made  it  so, 
And  thank  thee  for  the  law.     I  am  too  weak 
To  make  a  friend  of  Sorrow,  or  to  wear, 
With  that  dark  angel  ever  by  my  side 
(Though  to  thy  heaven  there  be  no  better  guide), 
A  front  of  manly  calm.     Yet,  for  I  hear 
How  woe  hath  cleansed,  how  grief  can  deify, 
So  weak  a  thing  it  seems  that  grief  should  die, 
And  love  and  friendship  with  it,  I  could  pray, 
That  if  it  might  not  gloom  upon  my  brow, 
Nor  weigh  upon  my  arm  as  it  doth  now, 
No  grief  of  mine  should  ever  pass  away. 


176          POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 


VIII 

AT  last,  beloved  Nature  !  I  have  met 
Thee  face  to  face  upon  thy  breezy  hills, 
And  boldly,  where  thy  inmost  bowers  are  set, 
Gazed  on  thee  naked  in  thy  mountain  rills. 
When  first  I  felt  thy  breath  upon  my  brow, 
Tears  of  strange  ecstasy  gushed  out  like  rain, 
And  with  a  longing,  passionate  as  vain, 
I  strove  to  clasp  thee.     But,  I  know  not  how, 
Always  before  me  didst  thou  seem  to  glide  ; 
And  often  from  one  sunny  mountain-side, 
Upon  the  next  bright  peak  I  saw  thee  kneel, 
And  heard  thy  voice  upon  the  billowy  blast ; 
But,  climbing,  only  reached  that  shrine  to  feel 
The  shadow  of  a  Presence  which  had  passed. 


SONNETS  177 


IX 

I  KNOW  not  why,  but  all  this  weary  day, 
Suggested  by  no  definite  grief  or  pain, 
Sad  fancies  have  been  flitting  through  my  brain ; 
Now  it  has  been  a  vessel  losing  way, 
Rounding  a  stormy  headland ;  now  a  gray 
Dull  waste  of  clouds  above  a  wintry  main  ; 
And  then,  a  banner,  drooping  in  the  rain, 
And  meadows  beaten  into  bloody  clay. 
Strolling  at  random  with  this  shadowy  woe 
At  heart,  I  chanced  to  wander  hither  !     Lo  ! 
A  league  of  desolate  marsh-land,  with  its  lush, 
Hot  grasses  in  a  noisome,  tide-left  bed, 
And  faint,  warm  airs,  that  rustle  in  the  hush, 
Like  whispers  round  the  body  of  the  dead  ! 


i;8          POEMS   OF  HENRY  TIMROD 


(WRITTEN  ON  A  VERY  SMALL  SHEET  OF  NOTE- 
PAPER) 

WERE  I  the  poet-laureate  of  the  fairies, 

Who  in  a  rose-leaf  finds  too  broad  a  page  ; 

Or  could  I,  like  your  beautiful  canaries, 

Sing  with  free  heart  and  happy,  in  a  cage ; 

Perhaps  I  might  within  this  little  space 

(As  in  some  Eastern  tale,  by  magic  power, 

A  giant  is  imprisoned  in  a  flower) 

Have  told  you  something  with  a  poet's  grace. 

But  I  need  wider  limits,  ampler  scope, 

A  world  of  freedom  for  a  world  of  passion, 

And  even  then,  the  glory  of  my  hope 

Would  not  be  uttered  in  its  stateliest  fashion  ; 

Yet,  lady,  when  fit  language  shall  have  told  it, 

You  '11  find  one  little  heart  enough  to  hold  it  1 


SONNETS  179 


XI 

WHICH  are  the  clouds,  and  which  the  mountains  ? 

See, 

They  mix  and  melt  together !     Yon  blue  hill 
Looks  fleeting  as  the  vapors  which  distill 
Their  dews  upon  its  summit,  while  the  free 
And  far-off  clouds,  now  solid,  dark,  and  still, 
An  aspect  wear  of  calm  eternity. 
Each  seems  the  other,  as  our  fancies  will  — 
The  cloud  a  mount,  the  mount  a  cloud,  and  we 
Gaze  doubtfully.     So  everywhere  on  earth, 
This  foothold  where  we  stand  with  slipping  feet, 
The  unsubstantial  and  substantial  meet, 
And  we  are  fooled  until  made  wise  by  Time. 
Is  not  the  obvious  lesson  something  worth, 
Lady  ?  or  have  I  wov'n  an  idle  rhyme  ? 


i8o          POEMS   OF  HENRY  TIMROD 


XII 

WHAT  gossamer  lures  thee  now  ?    What  hope,  what 

name 

Is  on  thy  lips  ?    What  dreams  to  fruit  have  grown  ? 
Thou  who  hast  turned  one  Poet-heart  to  stone, 
Is  thine  yet  burning  with  its  seraph  flame  ? 
Let  me  give  back  a  warning  of  thine  own, 
That,  falling  from  thee  many  moons  ago, 
Sank  on  my  soul  like  the  prophetic  moan 
Of  some  young  Sibyl  shadowing  her  own  woe. 
The  words  are  thine,  and  will  not  do  thee  wrong, 
I  only  bind  their  solemn  charge  to  song. 
Thy  tread  is  on  a  quicksand  —  oh  !  be  wise  ! 
Nor,  in  the  passionate  eagerness  of  youth, 
Mistake  thy  bosom-serpent 'j  glittering  eyes 
For  the  calm  lights  of  Reason  and  of  Truth. 


SONNETS  181 


XIII 

I  THANK  you,  kind  and  best  beloved  friend, 
With  the  same  thanks  one  murmurs  to  a  sister, 
When,  for  some  gentle  favor,  he  hath  kissed  her, 
Less  for  the  gifts  than  for  the  love  you  send, 
Less  for  the  flowers  than  what  the  flowers  convey, 
If  I,  indeed,  divine  their  meaning  truly, 
And  not  unto  myself  ascribe,  unduly, 
Things  which  you  neither  meant  nor  wished  to  say, 
Oh !  tell  me,  is  the  hope  then  all  misplaced  ? 
And  am  I  flattered  by  my  own  affection  ? 
But  in  your  beauteous  gift,  methought  I  traced 
Something  above  a  short-lived  predilection, 
And  which,  for  that  I  know  no  dearer  name, 
I  designate  as  love,  without  love's  flame. 


182  POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 


XIV 

ARE  these  wild   thoughts,   thus  fettered    in    my 

rhymes, 

Indeed  the  product  of  my  heart  and  brain  ? 
How  strange  that  on  my  ear  the  rhythmic  strain 
Falls  like  faint  memories  of  far-off  times ! 
When  did  I  feel  the  sorrow,  act  the  part, 
Which  I  have  striv'n  to  shadow  forth  in  song  ? 
In  what  dead  century  swept  that  mingled  throng 
Of  mighty  pains  and  pleasures  through  my  heart  ? 
Not  in  the  yesterdays  of  that  still  life 
Which  I  have  passed  so  free  and  far  from  strife, 
But  somewhere  in  this  weary  world  I  know, 
In  some  strange  land,  beneath  some  orient  clime, 
I  saw  or  shared  a  martyrdom  sublime, 
And  felt  a  deeper  grief  than  any  later  woe. 


SONNETS  183 


XV 

IN  MEMORIAM  —  HARRIS  SIMONS 

TRUE  Christian,  tender  husband,  gentle  Sire, 

A  stricken  household  mourns  thee,  but  its  loss 

Is  Heaven's  gain  and  thine ;  upon  the  cross 

God  hangs  the  crown,  the  pinion,  and  the  lyre  : 

And  thou  hast  won  them  all.     Could  we  desire 

To  quench  that  diadem's  celestial  light, 

To  hush  thy  song  and  stay  thy  heavenward  flight, 

Because  we  miss  thee  by  this  autumn  fire  ? 

Ah,  no  !  ah,  no !  —  chant  on  !  —  soar  on  !  —  Reign 

on ! 

For  we  are  better  —  thou  art  happier  thus ; 
And  haply  from  the  splendor  of  thy  throne, 
Or  haply  from  the  echoes  of  thy  psalm, 
Something  may  fall  upon  us,  like  the  calm 
To  which  thou  shalt  hereafter  welcome  us  ! 


15 


POEMS   NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED 


SONG 

COMPOSED  FOR  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY,  AND  RE- 
SPECTFULLY INSCRIBED  TO  THE  OFFICERS  AND 
MEMBERS  OF  THE  WASHINGTON  LIGHT  INFANTRY 
OF  CHARLESTON,  FEBRUARY  22,  1859 

A  HUNDRED  years  and  more  ago 

A  little  child  was  born  — 
To-day,  with  pomp  of  martial  show, 

We  hail  his  natal  morn. 

Who  guessed  as  that  poor  infant  wept 

Upon  a  woman's  knee, 
A  nation  from  the  centuries  stept 

As  weak  and  frail  as  he  ? 

Who  saw  the  future  on  his  brow 

Upon  that  happy  morn  ? 
We  are  a  mighty  nation  now 

Because  that  child  was  born. 

To  him,  and  to  his  spirit's  scope, 

Besides  a  glorious  home, 
We  owe  that  what  we  have  and  hope 

Are  more  than  Greece  and  Rome. 


i88          POEMS   OF  HENRY  TIMROD 


A  BOUQUET 

TAKE  first  a  Cowslip,  then  an  Asphodel, 

A  bridal  Rose,  some  snowy  Orange  flowers ; 
A  Lily  next,  and  by  its  spotless  bell 

Place  the  bright  Iris,  darling  of  the  showers  ; 
Set  gold  Nasturtiums,  Elder  blooms  between, 

And  Heart' s-ease  to  the  Orchis  marry  sweetly ; 
Then  with  red  Pinks,  and  slips  of  Evergreen, 

You  will  possess  —  all  folded  up  discreetly  — 
In  one  bouquet,  that  none  but  you  may  know, 

The  name  I  love  beyond  all  names  below. 


LINES  189 


LINES 

I  STOOPED  from  star-bright  regions,  where 
Thou  canst  not  enter  even  in  prayer ; 
And  thought  to  light  thy  heart  and  hearth 
With  all  the  poesy  of  earth. 

Oh,  foolish  hope  !  those  mystic  gleams 
To  thee  were  unsubstantial  dreams  ; 
The  paltry  world  had  made  thee  blind, 
And  shut  thy  heart  and  dulled  thy  mind. 

I  was  a  vassal  at  thy  feet, 
And  cringed  more  meanly  than  was  meet, 
And  since  I  dared  not  to  be  free, 
Was  scouted  as  a  slave  should  be. 

I  gave  thee  all  —  my  truth,  my  trust  — 
I  bowed  my  spirit  in  the  dust, 
I  put  a  crown  upon  thy  brow, 
And  am  its  proper  victim  now. 


190          POEMS   OF   HENRY   TIMROD 


A  TRIFLE 

I  KNOW  not  why,  but  ev'n  to  me 

My  songs  seem  sweet  when  read  to  thee. 

Perhaps  in  this  the  pleasure  lies  — 
I  read  my  thoughts  within  thine  eyes. 

And  so  dare  fancy  that  my  art 
May  sink  as  deeply  as  thy  heart. 

Perhaps  I  love  to  make  my  words 
Sing  round  thee  like  so  many  birds, 

Or,  maybe,  they  are  only  sweet 
As  they  seem  offerings  at  thy  feet. 

Or  haply,  Lily,  when  I  speak, 

I  think,  perchance,  they  touch  thy  cheek, 

Or  with  a  yet  more  precious  bliss, 
Die  on  thy  red  lips  in  a  kiss. 

Each  reason  here  —  I  cannot  tell  — 
Or  all  perhaps  may  solve  the  spell. 

But  if  she  watch  when  I  am  by, 
Lily  may  deeper  see  than  I. 


MADELINE  191 


LINES 

I  SAW,  or  dreamed  I  saw,  her  sitting  lone, 

Her  neck  bent    like   a  swan's,   her  brown  eyes 

thrown 

On  some  sweet  poem  —  his,  I  think,  who  sings 
CEnone,  or  the  hapless  Maud :  no  rings 
Flashed  from  the  dainty  fingers,  which  held  back 
Her  beautiful  blonde  hair.    Ah  !  would  these  black 
Locks  of  mine  own  were  mingling  with  it  now, 
And   these  warm   lips  were  pressed   against  her 

brow ! 

And,  as  she  turned  a  page,  methought  I  heard  — 
Hush  !  could  it  be  ?  — a  faintly  murmured  word, 
It  was  so  softly  dwelt  on  —  such  a  smile 
Played  on  her  brow  and  wreathed  her  lip  the  while 
That  my  heart  leaped  to  hear  it,  and  a  flame 
Burned   on    my  forehead  —  Sa'ra  !  —  't  was    my 

name. 


192  POEMS   OF  HENRY  TIMROD 


SONNET 

IF  I  have  graced  no  single  song  of  mine 

With  thy  sweet  name,  they  all  are  full  of  thee ; 

Thou  art  my  Muse,  my  "  May,"  my  "  Madeline : " 

But  "  Julia  "  !  —  ah !  that  gentle  name  to  me 

Is  something  far  too  sacred  for  the  throng 

Of  worldly  listeners  'round  me.     Yet  ev'n  now 

I  weave  a  chaplet  for  thy  sinless  brow ;  — 

Wilt  thou  not  wear  it  ?    'T  is  a  fashionable  song,  — 

I  will  not  say  of  what,  —  but  on  it  I 

Have  wreaked  heart,  mind,  my  love,  my  hopes  of 

fame, 

Yet  after  all  it  hath  no  nobler  aim 
Than  thy  dear  praise.     Ere  many  moons  pass  by, 
When  the  lost  gem  is  set,  the  crown  complete, 
I  '11  lay  a  poet's  tribute  at  thy  feet. 


TO  ROSA  :   ACROSTIC 

I  TOOK  a  Rosebud  from  a  certain  bower, 
And  by  its  side  placed  an  Orange  flower, 
Then  with  the  Speedwell,  blended  the  perfume 
And  the  sweet  beauty  of  an  Apple-bloom, 
And  thus,  't  is  one  of  the  loveliest  feats, 
Is  spelled  a  gentle  lady's  name  in  sweets. 


DEDICATION  193 

DEDICATION 

TO   FAIRY 

Do  you  recall  —  I  know  you  do  — 
A  little  gift  once  made  to  you  — 
A  simple  basket  filled  with  flowers, 
All  favorites  of  our  Southern  bowers  ? 

One  was  a  snowy  myrtle-bud, 
Another  blushed  as  if  with  blood, 
A  third  was  pink  of  softest  tinge, 
Then  came  a  disk  with  purple  fringe. 

You  took  them  with  a  happy  smile, 
And  nursed  them  for  a  little  while, 
And  once  or  twice  perhaps  you  thought 
Of  the  fond  messages  they  brought. 

And  yet  you  could  not  then  divine 
The  promise  in  that  gift  of  mine,  — 
In  those  bright  blooms  and  odors  sweet, 
I  laid  this  volume  at  your  feet. 

At  yours,  my  child,  who  scarcely  know 
How  much  to  your  dear  self  I  owe,  — 
Too  young  and  innocent  as  yet 
To  guess  in  what  consists  the  debt. 


194          POEMS   OF   HENRY  TIMROD 

Therefore  to  you  henceforth  belong 
These  Southern  asphodels  of  song, 
Less  my  creations  than  your  own, 
What  praise  they  win  are  yours  alone. 

For  here  no  fancy  finds  a  place 
But  is  an  affluence  of  your  grace  ;  — 
And  when  my  songs  are  sweetest,  then 
A  Dream  like  you  hath  touched  my  pen, 


'PEACE    AND    GOOD    WIL.L,." 


To  THE  EDITOR  OP  THE  EVENING  POST: 

SIR:  Will  you  glVe  space  in  your  columns 
to  the  following  poems,  as  specially  appro- 
priate  to   the  .present   crisis?     This,    from 
Thomas  Hardy's  recent  volume,  "Poems  of 
the  Past  and  the  Present,"  might  find  fit- 
ting place  in  our  Memorial  Day  exercises: 
"South  of  the  Line,  inland  from  far  Durban, 
A  mouldering  soldier  lies— your  countryman. 
Awry  and  doubled  up  are  his  gray  bones, 
And  on  the  breeze  his  puzzled  phantom  moans 
Nightly  to  clear  Canopus:  I  would  know 
By  whom  and  when  the  All-Earth-gladdening  Law 
Of  Peace,  brought  in  by  that  Man  Crucified, 
Was  ruled  to  be  inept,  and  set  aside? 
And  what  of  logic  or  of  truth  appears 
In  tacking  "Anno  Domini"  to  the  years? 
Near  twenty-hundred  liveried  thus  have  hied, 
But  tarries  yet  the  Cause  for  which  He  died." 

And  this,  from  Henry  Timrod's  poems, 
published  within  the  year,  I  believe,  might 
well  be  read  in  all  our  churches.  Surely  no 
more  be'autiful  prayer  could  be  offered: 

"Perhaps  ere  yet  the  Spring 
Hath  died  into  the  Summer,  over  all 
The  land,  the  peace  of  His  vast  love  shall  fall, 
Like  some  protecting  wing. 

"Oh,   ponder  what  it  means! 
Ob.  turn  the  rapturous  thought  in  every  way! 
Oh,  give  the  vision  and  the  fancy  play. 
And  shape  the  coming  scenes! 

"Peace  in  the  quiet  dales. 
Made  rankly  fertile  by  the  blood  of  men, 
Peace  in  the  woodland,   and  the  lonely  glen, 
Peace  in  the  peopled  vales! 

"Peace   in   the  crowded   town. 
Peace   in   a   thousand   fields   of   waving  grain, 
Peace  in  the  highway  and  the  flowery  lane, 
Peace  on  the  wind-swept  down! 

"Peace   on    the   farthest    seas. 


Peace  in  our  sheltered  bays  and  ample  streams, 
Peace  wheresoe'er  our  starry  garland  gleams, 
And  peace  in  every  breez»! 

"Peace  on  the  whirring  marts, 
Peace  where  the  scholar  thinks,   the  hunter  roams. 
Peace,  God  of  Peace!  Peace,  peace,  in  all  our  homes, 
And   peace   in   all  our  hearts!" 

NATHALIE  W.  HOMANS. 
Brooklyn.   N.   Y..   May   17. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


100m-8,'65  (F6282s8 )  2373 


II 


PS3070.A2  1899 


3  2106  00208  2730 


